


Rehab

by HappyDagger



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bottom Will Graham, Captivity, Control Issues, Dialogue Heavy, Drug Use, First attempt at Hannibal so sorry for whatever I’ll get wrong, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Influenced by Stephen King, Loss of Control, M/M, Manipulation, Mind Games, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Canon Compliant, Obsession, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Possessive Behavior, Possible daddy issues/kink, Protective Hannibal Lecter, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Rape/Non-con Elements, References to Drugs, Slow Burn, Stalking, Top Hannibal Lecter, Will is a writer, i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-05-07 19:41:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14678088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyDagger/pseuds/HappyDagger
Summary: “I’m a fan of your work.”Will’s jaw hung loose from his dry mouth. He knew that somehow he had been asking for this, but he still wasn’t prepared. “Thank you.”Will is a true crime writer investigating a suspect methadone clinic.He ends up getting the help he never wanted.





	1. A Problem

They started popping up in the poorest parts of town since a law went into effect that made compulsory rehab mandatory for any and all ‘recreational’ opioid users. Seemingly overnight, 8 ½” by 14” semi gloss signs were staked into the earth at high traffic intersections. The blue signs simply said ‘METHADONE’ in big white letters and listed a phone number underneath. The automated voice answering the number made rambling, glitchy references to Christ, redemption, and hope before repeating this address twice.

 

His agent told him not to go.

 

Determined nonetheless, Will stood in the cool shade of a bus stop shelter staring at the location from across a narrow pockmarked road early one steamy Monday morning. The possibility of fast money hung in the atmosphere like blood in the water. It was only a matter of time before someone took advantage of the panic and need created by good intentions, a dearth of planning, and total lack of oversight. Another reactionary non-answer that made some asshole a good campaign promise.

An empty bottle hopped and rolled alongside the curb like a tumbleweed. Will spun and searched his lonely surroundings because it still _felt_ like he’d been followed.

Again.

He frowned when the breeze harassed him with the sickly sour sweet smell of putrid garbage and tapped out some quick notes.

 

Address in 15th Ward

rectangular windowless building

Storage facility?

One entrance; double doors

One sign on left door

No cars in small parking lot

 

He flung the fake yellow sticky note on his phone’s screen up and away then tapped the chat bubble in a green box and texted her.

 

 **Will:** If I don’t answer you for 2-3 days, don’t worry.

 **Alana:** What are you doing?

 **Will:** If I don’t answer for more than a week call my agent.

 **Alana:** Don’t try something that may make you unable to communicate for a week.

 **Will:** Thank you.

 **Alana:** I didn’t say _Okay_

 **Alana:** I said _Don’t do the thing_ , Will.

 

Will hit the power button on the side of his phone and slid it into his back pocket.

He looked both ways and hurried to the building, hands shoved into the pouch of a worn blue hoodie. It was soft, light, and fit like a second skin. So did his worn and torn jeans and it turned out, overall, that it was easy and comfortable for Will to dress like a desperate addict who’d pissed away all his resources.

It almost felt authentic.

 

Will rubbed the bridge of his nose on the inside of his sleeve then jabbed at the button on a shiny new intercom, which sat in contrast to the rest of the phlegmatic gray building. He dug the toe of his boot into a crumbling corner of concrete block and scanned the area with a few jerks of his buzzing head. He thought he saw someone in his periphery again, but there was no one behind him.

Laminated paper on the door adjacent to the intercom had the word ‘METHADONE’ in it’s lightly sun-bleached center with three clip art crosses underneath.

“Yes,” a flat voice said through the speaker.

Will scratched the stubble on his jaw with his rough fingertips. “I-I saw your sign.”

“...”

“I called? The message-”

“Do you have any weapons?”

“No!” Will sounded more defensive than he’d meant to. “Can you help me or-”

“Cameras?”

“What?”

“Do you have any cameras?”

“No.”

A lock popped beside him and then one door sighed open.

 

He stepped into a foyer where a large, muscular man in a black uniform stood waiting.  He lifted Will’s arms and patted him down while Will stood there like Jesus. “I don’t know if I’m in the right place,” he told the back of the man’s buzzed head.

The guard finished patting Will’s ankles and pulled himself up to standing. He looked Will over, taking slow, lazy steps around him as he talked. “This facility is only open to opioid users who are in danger of withdrawal.”

“Ok.”

“Only patients can enter. If you enter, you must take the dose of methadone prescribed to you. Entering the building does not guarantee methadone will be prescribed to you. You can be asked to leave at any time for any reason. In order to receive methadone you will have to submit to questions and tests by the medical staff. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“You may not talk about the appearance, behavior, or possible identity of any patient you see in or around this building. You may, however, discuss the staff and/or facility if you, or a medical professional who’s care you are under, feels it is necessary. **Staff** , not patients.”

“I understand.”

“Are you in treatment?”

Will shook his head.

Having completed his inspecting circle to his satisfaction, the large man mumbled a throwaway, “Alright,” and punched in a code on a small keypad on the knobless, windowless, door behind him. “Come on.” The guard waved Will in impatiently. His hand spun in quick, yanking circles, reeling Will in.

 

Immediately, the whole place struck him as wrong and Will knew the feeling he’d had would prove correct, as usual. There were no signs, pamphlets, no warnings or disclosures taped anywhere and no long line of people waiting.

In fact, there was only a small girl in a big sweater and black tights being lead by women down a white hallway, and a man standing at a small counter resembling a box office ticket window. It was impossible to tell how old the man might be, he was dull and gnarled from hard living. He slid a clipboard through a small opening in the cloudy window.

“Hun.”

Will shrugged his arms closer to his chest and turned. A small woman in old scrubs gestured toward a row of four vacant chairs. “Sit down and fill out a form.”

It didn’t smell like a medical facility. It wasn’t bright enough. There wasn’t anything in the reception area for patients. Not even tissues or hand sanitizer, only a box of clipboards and blank forms.

The worndown man threw his head back like he was taking a shot then slid a small medicine cup under the window and went down the same white hall the girl had left through.

 

Will chewed the inside of his dry bottom lip and snuck a photo of the questionnaire. He was surprised the form only identified him by a number. It never asked for a name or contact information. The questions seemed odd as well. He quickly categorized them to try and find a pattern.

 _Detailed sexual history, exercise habits, technical and practical abilities, special talents, pre-existing conditions, relationships with family, friends, and coworkers, a personality questionnaire?_ Will couldn’t make sense of what information this place was actually after and why. Maybe the clinic passed the information on to a caseworker of some kind? Maybe they were harvesting data for a trial drug or therapy?

 

The majority of the questions were assessing:

 **Health** \- that made sense. The clinic would be distributing a controlled substance.

 **Sexual History and Preferences** \- Risky sex? Why not just test for STDs?

 **Skills** \- Why? Work placement programs?

 **Social Safety Net** \- Did this mitigate the chances of being committed to a rehab facility?

 **Personality** \- The test consisted mainly of questions concerning Agreeableness, not Neuroticism, or Impulsivity.

 

Will frowned and scratched the coarse stubble on his jaw. Are they comparing Agreeableness to outcomes? Maybe this was all for some Grad student’s thesis and he was being paranoid after all.

“Finished, hun?”

Will glanced up and surrendered the clipboard to the small woman in old scrubs. “Yes, thanks.”

She had an blue black hair in a messy bun and cool creamy brown skin. Her placid smile didn’t reach her large, hungry eyes. “Let’s get your vitals. Real quick. Next time, you can skip this part. Here we go.”

The front door opened as Will was being led by a small but firm grip on his elbow. Another user shuffled in.

“Back against the wall,” the little woman said with a cynical cheeriness that made Will’s muscles tense.

“I’m sorry, what is this?”

“We need your height, hun.” She went about her work like a factory worker on an assembly line.

A small black dome mounted stared from the wall across from him seemed to aim at his face. _A camera?_ “My- here? In front of everyone?”

She snorted and glanced over her shoulder. “That’s just Robin. Old favorite of ours. And he’s getting so much better! You see?” She scribbled something on the form he’d handed over. “You’re not so short, hun!” Smiling gleefully now, she grabbed his elbow. “This way.”

Will frowned and yanked his arm free, but followed anyhow. “Excuse me?”

“You’re a beautiful man,” she remarked to herself nodding and looking over his paperwork. “Don’t worry about height.”

“Uh…” Will smirked and looked away. His tired hands retreated into back into his hoodie’s pouch. “Thanks.”

They stopped in front of the ticket window styled counter. A neat, thin man with short auburn hair and thick rimmed glasses reached through the hole in the green hued thick and cloudy glass protecting him to take the clipboard. He unclipped the paperwork and spun in his leather chair to file it without smiling or looking up.

 _Leather, that’s not right either._ There were no photos or personal affects in his small glass office. The whole operation could probably be packed up and moved in half an hour, from what Will could see.

“He needs a low dose.”

The man froze just as his long fingers had walked across a drawer full of files and opened a pink slit. He seemed to process the statement and continued on, sliding the Will’s papers into the pink folder.

The small woman moved on to Robin, her _old favorite._

“Here you go.” The neat man offered him a medicine cup through the glass separating them. It looked like cough syrup.

“I think I changed my mind.”

The neat man adjusted his glasses and pointedly stared at Will scratching his forearm. “You look like you’re getting sick.” He rolled his eyes and sighed to himself. “Don’t worry. It’s free.”

The guard said he couldn’t leave without taking it. It wouldn’t hurt. He’d done worse. Will downed it like a shot. “Thank you.”

The neat man swallowed and spun away.

 _He feels guilty._ This was a mistake.

The lights dimmed but no one else noticed.

The room tilted like a ship in a hurricane.

The world closed around him and turned into stars.

 

 


	2. Powerless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introductions and hilarious misunderstandings ensue!

“I didn’t expect you to be so complicated.”

Even now, William’s sleeping Kierkegaard eyes and Byron hair strove to deceive Hannibal into viewing him as a mere archetypal poet. In truth, Mr. Graham contained many intriguing contradictions. He’d zip up his worn jacket and stalk around the city, his head lowered and eyes searching. He had an almost supernatural feel for Hannibal’s gaze and would stop mid-stride to look over his shoulder.

He never found Hannibal’s face.

At first, Hannibal thought he’d found another killer but he hadn’t entertained the idea for very long before it faltered.

Mr. Graham’s expression defaulted to a vulnerable earnestness, yet he carefully kept himself guarded. Seeing a dog being walked made him smile. He was careful to avoid a crow pecking at a carcass in the middle of the road. He held doors open for the slow, he was courteous and patient even with people behind counters and, in general, seemed drawn to behaving kindly to people whom Hannibal would classify as non-threatening, though he endeavored to withdraw from people altogether.

He had a few chronically neglected close friends.

William Graham investigated, calculated, and daydreamed. He wandered through woods and city streets and read often. In conversation, William appeared to be a poor liar yet a talented actor.

What did it mean?

  


Will opened one crusty, blinking eye. He rubbed his face and groaned. Both eyes shot open when his palm brushed against the beard, which had grown on his face.

“Hello, William.”

Will blinked until his blurry vision cleared. “Wha-” he croaked and coughed. He tried to sit up but, finding his arms numb and weak, sank in defeat. “What happened?”

“You lied about the drugs you’ve been using.”

He tried to rub the sleep off his face. “No. No. This is-”

“A mistake?” The man said, indulging him. As he came into focus, Will found the faintest smirk pulling at the corner of the man’s mouth.

Will didn’t think it was funny. He found himself in a spare but tastefully decorated room. A narrow door was to his left. A wide short window was to the right of and above him.

The man was tall. That much was clear even as he sat by Will’s bedside. Everything about his features was long and elegant yet sharp and hard. His expression was placid, almost detached, but his warm honey brown eyes were bright and penetrating.

Will felt immediately that this man was used to being underestimated. His face wasn’t a mask, but it was hiding something important.

Will’s head bumped into the cold wall behind him. He hadn’t realised he’d been inching away.

“This is a disorienting situation to find yourself in. Most people are understandably alarmed.” Most people scream and thrash at this point, actually. “What are you feeling?”

“Alarmed is, um, pretty accurate. How long have I been unconscious?”

The sharp elegant man dismissed the concern with a paternal kind of smile. “Not long.”

_Liar._

“You must be thirsty. There is some water with ice beside you.”

In fact, his mouth and throat _did_ feel like burned letters.

The tumbler was wonderfully cold. The dew on it’s shiny side was greedily sucked up by Will’s desert hand. He had to restrain himself from chugging all he could and slowly drank the sweet, cool water until his arm trembled. “Thank you,” he sighed.

The sharp elegant man took the water from his failing hand. “You’re welcome, William. Are you in pain?”

“Not really.” It felt like he’d just run a marathon. “What’s wrong with me?”

“A few things, I suspect. In order to find out, I need you to answer some questions.  _Honestly_.”

Will frowned. “This isn’t a hospital, is it?”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. This has to be some kind of private operation. Everything is too nice. You’re too nice.”

The sharp, elegant man smirked again. This time, it made his eyes smile. “ _I’m_ too nice?”

Will tried to gesture toward the man, but his hand ended up flopping on the bed unimpressively. “The way you’re dressed, your hair, your watch, your accent. I mean, if… you’re probably at the top of your field if you’re traveling globally. Government funded rehab centers don’t usually have international specialists. I’m sorry. I feel drunk.”  He mumbled, “You can call me Will, if you don’t mind.”

The sharp elegant man obviously didn’t mind that or Will’s rambling. “I should apologize instead; I haven’t introduced myself; Hannibal Lecter. I’m your doctor.”

“I would shake your hand…”

“Of course. You’re very weak right now,” he reassured Will. “Though, I would like to some other time.”

“What, you mean when I’m ‘sober’? Listen, I know you don’t believe me but-”

“I’m a fan of your work.”

Will’s jaw hung loose from his dry mouth. He knew that somehow he had been asking for this, but he still wasn’t prepared. “Thank you.”

“You should be proud of your writing and research, but you seem concerned.”

“Well, you must know why I’m really here.”

Will shouldn’t have agreed to sit for a headshot. His agent insisted his blog and books needed an author photo, but how can he investigate anything important now with his face attached to true crime books and articles.

Dr. Lecter took Will’s wrist between his fingers and looked down at his watch. “I think you came here to get the help you need.”

Will’s scoff turned into a hollow laugh. “I don’t need any help.”

“Oh?” The doctor jotted a note on a leather bound legal pad.

“Come on. You obviously aren’t a counselor, so what is this?” Will tried to peel away a bandaid inside his elbow.

“Leave that alone, please.” Lecter stood and slid his hands into white gloves.

Snap.

Snap.

He loomed over Will, unsmiling.

The last time someone had been this much higher and stronger than Will, he was an unhappy child.

Dr. Lecter removed the bandage, revealing dried blood and two tiny bruised puncture wounds.

“What was in me? What is that from?”

Lector disposed of the bandage without answering.

“That’s from an I.V., right?”

“What made you assume I’m not a counselor?”

“Would you sit down? Please?”

Lecter stood, unmoved. Waited for an answer.

“Because you don’t look tired. The kind of tired that comes from empathy.” Will clearly had to watch his words and gauge Dr. Lecter’s reaction with sensitivity, especially until he had obtained a basic grasp of the situation he had fucked up into. Yet the words had marched out as if compelled.

“You think I lack empathy?”

 _Probably._ “I just don’t get the impression that you suffer from it.”

The doctor took his seat. “I see.”

“That’s not an insult. Another reason you likely aren’t a counselor in a rehab is that you never could have been an addict yourself. You’re too…” Will felt himself blushing and again wondered what was happening to him.

“I’m too what?”

Will swallowed and shrugged, “... in control.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

Will half-smiled and shook his head. “How does _what_ make me feel?”

Lector leaned closer. “Being under the care of someone who is in control.”

Will swallowed and pulled the sheet further up his chest.

“I feel like I’m talking a lot. Am I talking a lot?”

“You’re avoiding my question.”

“I can’t seem to read you.”

Lecter smiled. As he turned to grab a small recorder, his tongue flicked across his lips. “I’m afraid that I’m quite used to it.”

“I’m not.”

“No?”

Will shook his head, trying to retreat back into himself, almost admitting to Lecter that he couldn’t think of the last person who perplexed him like this. Almost confessing that he instantaneously read the people around him in a way he didn’t understand and couldn’t control.

”Will, before we continue, I would like to begin recording this conversation with your informed consent.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can sign anything at the moment.”

The doctor gave a nod. “Very well. Some other time. So, if you would be kind enough to indulge me, who or what _do_ you think am I? Or am I simply a list of ‘not’s to you?”

“Well… you put on those gloves easily, quickly, like you’re used to it. You turned them inside out, one in the other without thinking about it and didn’t blink at dry blood and bruises. You’ve developed a bedside manner. You have to be a psychiatrist or neurologist. Are you running a trial study for a new drug? Or testing a hypothesis about agreeableness and recovery?” Will looked all around the bed. “Where’s my phone?”

“You want to record me? Perhaps we can record one another for our own purposes when you gain phone privileges.”

Will felt like he’d dropped through the bed. His fingertips dug into the cotton sheets. “No. Please, I need my phone. I have to write all this somewhere.”

“You need to rest for now.”

“I don’t!” Will sounded petulant to his own ears. He tried to sit up again in vain. “What’s happened to me?”

“You lied about your drug use on the forms you filled out prior to receiving a dose of methadone.”

“I know.”

“It didn’t react well with the mix in your system.”

“I’m not a- wait, what?”

“How long have you been abusing Xanax?”

“Who…” Oh. At least one of the of the punctures on his arm was to draw blood. “Listen, I have a prescription.”

“And for the OxyCodone?”

Will thought he’d been caught snooping around a cartel or trafficking ring using the clinic as a front. He was struggling to adjust that frame of reference. “I had a prescription for that too. This is, honestly, a misunderstanding.”

“What doctor would prescribe the mix of drugs found in your system? Please give me a name, if that’s what happened.”

Will’s shoulders sank further under the Doctor’s expectant stare. “...”

“Tell me the truth, Will.”

“The pain pills were from an old prescription. Look, you know I’m not a heroin addict. I know that I clearly misunderstood what the methadone clinic was about. I’m sorry I lied on the forms and took the dose. But if you read my work you must understand; this was an investigation.”

Dr. Lecter’s stare became severe. “You were investigating a killer’s trap and willing let yourself be drugged?”

Will laughed. “When you say it that way, it sounds stupid.”

Lecter wasn’t laughing.

”I’m kidding. I thought... I don’t know what I thought.”

”That’s why you were alarmed when I knew your work,” Lecter said in a low voice, as if to himself. An ironic smile pulled at one side of his mouth. “Good thing I’m not the kind of man you would normally write about.”

”Maybe one day I will write about someone who _saves_ lives,” Will said half heartedly, trying to put this whole mess behind him as quickly as fucking possible. “So, could I please have my phone back? My girlfriend has to be very worried by now.”

“I’d be happy to call anyone you’d like. Is there a message you would like me to relay?”

Will frowned. “I would like to know when I can leave.”

“That depends on how your rehabilitation progresses.”

“But I’ve never used heroin!” Will wasn’t as bothered as he knew he should be. “I do not consent to treatment.”

“You don’t have to. Heroin isn’t the only opioid, it’s merely the cheapest. You have been abusing Oxycodone. That means your care is compulsory under a new law that went into effect a few weeks ago.”

Will whimpered instead of growling. His head sank back into a cloud.

Lecter’s voice felt closer but his body felt further away. ”Unless you tell me the doctor who endangered your life, I will continue under the only other logical assumption; that you’re only lying to me and yourself because you are powerless under your addiction.”

Will was too distracted by the sudden electric sensuous feel of the cotton sheets on the palms of his searching hands. He sighed, almost shuddered.

“Will?” Lecter said in a honey brown voice. “How are you feeling now?”

“Light. Actually…” A slow smile crept onto Will’s face. His inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. “If this is powerless, it feels, um, pretty good.”

Lector smirked and put a hand above Will’s knee. “I’ll bet it does.”


	3. Sanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal conducts a productive interview.

The too-nice bed transformed into dazzling landscapes beneath it’s too-soft sheets. Will sighed ripples.“I wish I had my phone.”

“What would you write about?”

Will shook his airy head. “I want to listen to music. I love music so much. Wait… something is wrong.” The room of cool stoney colors obligingly rolled when Will turned his head. “This is like being high. Why do I feel high?”

Dr. Lecter didn’t seem concerned. That was reassuring. “You’re reacting to the combination of drugs in your system. How are you feeling?”

“Like everything is… how it has to be. I keep talking.”

“But that’s very good. Is it so unusual for you?”

“I’m rolling,” Will realized.

“I’m sorry?”

“That’s what we called it in college. Why am I rolling?”

“Is that when you started using drugs?”

“In college? No. I tried some things in high school, like everyone else.”

“What did you try?”

“Pills, pot, and this, this is like X. That’s what we used to call it. Only, this high isn’t jumpy, buzzy, or clenchy. It feels fu- amazing.”

“Why did you begin to experiment with drugs when you were so young?” Lecter wasn’t making an accusation. He sat serene as a monk in a tall, elegant, leather chair. It suited him. His eyes were openly fixated on Will’s.

Lecter wasn’t going through a list or procedure. He wasn’t emotionally invested. He was fascinated.

Why?

Will closed his eyes and sank back into his cloudy bed. “Why does any kid use drugs?”  

“To feel some things and not feel others, I often find. But I’d rather hear your answer than imagine my own.”

Will gathered balls of sheets into his fists and exhaled blissfully. “Are you doing research?”

“No. That’s not what I’m doing here, with you. I’d like to get to know you and for the two of us to take inventory of your addictions today. I feel you are still resisting my attempts to have a productive conversation.”

“Still resisting?” Will slowly smiled. “This is our first conversation, Doc-tor. Why ‘still’? Did you slip me something so I would want to talk? I don’t have any traumas to uncover if that’s what you think. This is all a mistake so it won’t be productive, even if I stop _resisting._ ”

Will was smiling but Lecter wasn’t. “When did you become interested in psychology?”

“When, uh…” after a brief weightless struggle, Will sat up. “When I decided to write about Jeffrey Dahmer.”

“That was your second book. Didn’t you study psychology in preparation for your first one?”

“ _Dahmer_ was the second book my agency published, but it was the first I ever wrote. I couldn’t sell it to anyone. So, I looked for a more current subject and I found a serial killer who was never caught and probably never will be. That book was only rejected _eight_ times before I found my agent and, after several rewrites, I got a four-book contract. I’m working on number three now. Or, I _was_ until,” Will’s hands rose and collapsed beside his hips, “... this happened.”

A slight crease between Lecter’s brows seemed to indicate a frown. “You rewrote _Chesapeake Ripper_? What did you change?”

“It was 250 they wanted 85.” Will laughed because he’d been so offended at the time. He could have torn up the contract if he had it in hand. Not that contracts really work that way. “Words, I mean,” Will explained, remembering his audience of one. “I had to cut roughly 165,000 words.”

Lecter’s lips parted.

“It’s fine,” Will tried to assure him. “Writing is a profession. I had to learn how to… adjust my thinking, I suppose. My hang-ups seem so trivial now.”

“What hang-ups?”

The air between them was sharp and cold now. Will found himself speaking anyhow because it truly felt like talking things through could change them, change anything for the better. “What’s wrong?”

“What hang-ups were trivial, Will?”

“It’s hard to explain. Publishing is a business, that’s the thing. And anyway, art can come later.”

Lector smoothed his blue-grey silk vest with a stiff jerk. “What happened to the original manuscript?”

“Something upset you?” Will’s awkward words kept manifesting as sound outside himself as soon as he thought them. He wasn’t high enough not to wish them back down his throat where they could be carefully arranged and let out at his discretion. “I’m much better at writing than speaking,” he apologized.

Dr. Lecter glanced at his watch again. “I have another patient to attend to this afternoon.” His honey brown stare caught Will again. “For the rest of our session, I’d like you to answer my questions instead of asking your own. This evening, we’ll dine together and you may ask me anything you’d like. I’ll do my best to answer. Do you agree to these terms?”

“Yes. Alright.”

“Good. Now, tell me what happened to the manuscript.”

Will rubbed his numb lips together. “I was frustrated. I was tired, hungry, and so wrapped up in my creation. It was even more, than telling a story, that one. Basically, I, um, had to fall out of love.”

“Out of love?”

“What? Is that crazy?”

”No. It’s interesting. What happened when you tried to fall out of love?”

“This was before,” Will shrugged, “ the ‘cloud’, you know? I kept the first draft on a sleek silver flash drive."

Dr. Lecter’s sharp eyes grew rounder. “What did you do to it?”

“I threw it in a bonfire on a bitter night in late December. It popped and writhed in the flames. For an instant, a furious bright blue light hissed out of one end. Then it slowly withered and blackened on the glowing embers.”

Will’s eyes traced the long window’s sharp edges. It must have been cut from the wall. “Writing that book, doing the research; I stared deep into the abyss. When I found the flash drive, days later, it had curled up and charred. I thought maybe I had closed a door but I still feel…” Will tried to look out the long window but it was too high above him.

The way the light changed on the wall behind Lecter made Will think clouds must be passing by outside. He wanted to see them. He wished he could touch them.

“Feel?” The doctor pressed.

“The abyss staring back at me.”

“Perhaps you opened a door instead of closing one.”

”Maybe. Writing about Dahmer was another dead end; he was just a broken mind. But when it was done, it was done. I wish I picked another subject for the second book, honestly. I sometimes think I’d even give the money back,” Will said with a quick smirk.

”Will?”

Will’s focus shifted from the window to Lecter. “Yes?”

“Why did do you think you decided to write about serial killers?”

“What does that have to do with drugs?” Will blurted in a friendly way.

On a five star scale, Lecter would likely give Will’s charm no stars at all.

“You really want to know?” Will relented.

“Please.”

“I needed to understand.”

Lecter did not appear satisfied.

“I tried writing about Hitler first; that went nowhere. He was a problem I had to solve or at least see fully but decades of historians and psychoanalysts had already poured over his biography and crimes with more material and expertise than I could obtain in a lifetime. There was so much history to learn and understand. I couldn’t even learn German or afford to go to Europe. I felt like a failure and a fraud. But then one day in a used bookstore, I saw this graphic novel about Jeffrey Dahmer and I remembered hearing that he kept remains of his victims so they couldn’t leave him. I thought there was was something in my Hitler problem that I could work out in Dahmer. You know? Al Capone is easy. Stalin, Mao: they’re just sociopaths, cunning opportunists. But how does a human live out their days as if they’re devoted to tenderly caring for their mother, or terrified of losing their lover and then…” Will grimaced against a flood of images a tried to shake them away.

“Where does your other book fit into the puzzle?”

The coarse hair of his beard sent little shivers through Will’s fingertips as he thought. “The Ripper is an artist. Everything in his life is just as he’s made it but he’s missing, mm, a meaningful connection.” Will smirked, rubbing his palm up and down his richly textured jaw. “It’s all speculation,” he quoted his agent as saying. “I had to cut it all out.”

The leather chair creaked when Lecter shifted to the side, leaning his chin against his index finger. “You were profiling this man? If it is a man.”

“If I did end up profiling him, it was incidental to my true objective.”

“Which was to understand this man? If he is a man?”

"He is. His murders are ‘masculine’ in the usual brutish sense, but it’s indicative of a male brain as anything. He communicates through these murders. Communicates to impress and impose himself- his vision. Anyway, the forensic evidence shows that he has to be a tall, athletic man. To answer your question,” Will paused to emphasize that he was indeed intent on holding up his end of the deal, "yes. I wanted to understand him.”

”Will, I think your next project should be a sequel to the Ripper book. You should face what you’re running from.”

”That’s how I got on the Xanax.”

”Ah.” Lecter scribbled another note. “Very good. Then that’s what you must do.”

“You’re wearing a three-piece suit,” he blurted. “It’s neat.”

Lecter smiled with one corner of his mouth. “I’m glad you think so.”

“What if you find out that I’m crazy? You can’t keep me here, can you? Right? Unless I’m going to kill myself?”

“Or someone else. It’s my turn to ask questions.”

“I’m sorry. I have all this energy and words. It was so hard to move before.”

“I understand. Will?”

“Yes, Dr. Lecter?”

“I’m going to ask you some questions about your medical history now. Can you try to answer to the best of your ability?”

Will nodded. “Yes.”

“Thank you, and please, call me Hannibal.”


	4. Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal each reach their own conclusions.

With each step between his room and the table set for two on the floor below it, the remaining mist of the euphoric storm in Will’s mind vibrated louder and at a higher octave.

 

Will had woken up not remembering when he fell asleep, or if it even was sleep, exactly. He’d peaked twisting in soft sheets, curling his toes to Chopin’s carefully placed notes. The rest was in his head, but that didn’t mean it was a dream.

When he opened his eyes, he was alone. Unable to shake the feeling of having woken up in a just-right bed moments before claws and sharp teeth came home to find him, Will sat up with a pounding heart.

Sobering up was a cold hard fall, a little at a time, over and over. Details he’d overlooked began to crystallize. His stubble had grown into a thick beard. A small cut at the base of his index finger had healed completely. He was wearing a light, loose, outfit that felt more like pajamas than the scrub-like uniform he would have expected if he could have imagined his clothes would be taken at all. Taken off his body.

Will shuddered.

Though free of the weight, which limited his efforts earlier, Will was startled by his weakness. When he had tried to stand, he’d wobbled like a fawn.

After a few jello steps, he’d fallen into the door facing the head of his bed and had steadied himself by gripping the handle. Blood had rushed to his head, swallowing the world in a wave of flashing stars for a moment. That’s when he’d felt the thing on his ankle.

The hallway was beautiful but empty. There was a pronounced emphasis on quality in every subdued detail. The expert use of contrast, clean lines, and texture created a symmetry, which was exquisite but severe. It felt like chaos couldn’t be tolerated, or was being stowed away somewhere. Hidden, maybe. Saved for something.

 

By the time Will slowly put one bare foot on the distressed wood, keeping the other on the staircase, the buzz in his mind had reached a crescendo. He listened carefully. No voices. No footsteps. Something smelled good.

Will slowly peered around a gray corner. To his left, a striking modern kitchen with an L shaped marble countertop. There were fresh orchids next to a walnut cutlery block on a standalone island. The thought struck Will again; _it’s too nice_. Too big, the ceiling was too high, the lighting was too refined. Nothing said ‘commercial’ let alone ‘government-run’.

To his right, lay an open foyer ending with a door. Three narrow window panes cascaded neatly at its top. _It’s dark outside._ He must have been sleeping.

Rachmaninov was playing softly; heavy but swift with a yearning tilt toward hope.   

“The hell is this?” Will whispered, shaking his head. He carefully placed his other foot on the wood floor then quietly made his way to the door, keeping his shoulder to the wall.

He was approaching the tiled entryway, just a few feet from the door when the thing on his ankle beeped.

Will froze. He extended his leg out and it beeped twice. It looked like a thick black Fitbit with a chunky box face. It even had that same strange plastic-skin feel against his ankle, but it looked hard on the outside.

“Will?”

He spun and threw his hands out as though he’d been caught. Then he stood straight and pointed to the device. “What is this?”

“A monitor.” Lecter stood in front of his kitchen. His blazer was off now and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He had the natural, hard muscle of a laborer, not the smooth bulges of a gym enthusiast. That felt odd.

_Maybe he’s a runner. Lots of doctors are runners. He probably gardens and builds things._

“Are you alright?”

Will was still pointing. “I don’t consent to this.”

“Your consent is not required. I’m glad you joined me.” Lecter gestured to his left. “Dinner is waiting.”

“I’m not very hungry, thank you.”

“We made a deal. Remember?”

“I held up my end of that deal. Asking you anything I wanted was what _I_ got out of it.”

“At dinner.” Lecter approached him. “You said that you would dine with me. That was our agreement.”

Will stepped back and the monitor buzzed around his ankle. “Fuck!” He jerked his foot out of the entryway. “That thing shocked me!”

“It vibrated.”

Will twisted his foot around. His ankle looked unharmed. Maybe it wasn’t a shock. He looked up and steeled himself to keep from jumping again.

Lecter stood face to face with him. He put a hand on Will’s shoulder and led him to a dining room.

“I want my lawyer.”

“Who should I call for you?”

“ _I_ would like to call.”

“Then you’ll have to wait until you’ve earned your-”

Will growled and clasped his face with both hands. “No. No. I need my lawyer to tell you that you can’t take my phone in the first place because eating some Xanax doesn’t mean you can be involuntarily committed, even under the new law.”

Lecter wrapped his long fingers around Will’s wrists and lowered them so Will’s face was exposed again. He waited until their eyes met. “I will call. After. Dinner.”

“Ok.”

“Look.” Lecter released him and stepped aside to reveal the table. “Is it really so bad here?”

Will gave a small smile as his shoulders sank. “No. This is incredible. Honestly.” He leaned closer and inspected the food and table set. “Wine?”

Lecter confirmed with a nod. “One glass a day, if you’d like it.”

Will glanced around. “Is this really for me?”

That seemed to make Lecter happy. He pulled out Will’s chair. “Please.”

Will chewed his dry lip. “Oh. Thank you.” He sat and gripped the arms when Lecter pushed his chair in. He took the cloth napkin in front of him with an unsteady hand and smoothed it onto his lap. “Where, um, where is everybody?”

Lecter poured them each a glass. It looked like a Cabernet. “You’re a very special patient.” He sat across from Will and raised his glass by it’s delicate stem. “To your recovery.”

Will raised his as well. “Yes. I certainly do hope to be recovered.”

Lecter smiled.

They both drank.

 

“This is delicious.” Will repeated. He was halfway through his roast. Enough time had passed in silence for him to think up his questions and how to phrase them.

He felt sober now, though a lingering aura kept whispering that everything was fine.

“Thank you.”

“You… did you cook this?”

“You’re surprised?”

“It is... amazing. I don’t know that I’ve ever had better. Do you do everything with such precision, Doctor?”

Lecter smirked into his long-stemmed glass and took a sip. “You make that sound like an accusation.”

“Is it?”

“What do you mean?”

Will swallowed, averting his gaze. He wasn’t sure how to proceed. He still wasn’t thinking things through the way he normally would. “Where am I?”

“In a unique rehabilitation facility.”

“No, I mean _where_. Metairie?” Will surveyed the room’s crown molding, arched entrances, and worn, real wood floorboards. “This is way too compact to be a plantation house. It’s far too quiet to be in the French Quarter. It’s nice. It’s really old but it's been updated. So, this is Metairie, right? Is that where we are?”

“You don’t need to know as long as you’re unable to leave.” Lecters hands rose and opened. “This is your world during your rehabilitation. It’s important to shut the rest out. For now.”

“Where’s the staff?”

“It’s quite peaceful here. No one will disturb our work.”

Will put his silverware down and leaned away from the table. “What do I have to do to go home?”

“You said you started abusing opioids when you were writing the Chesapeake Ripper book.”

“I didn’t phrase it like that.”

“I think you need write a sequel based, in part, on the material you threw away. We can find what caused you to self-medicate then confront it.”

“Write… a sequel?”

“Are you finished?” Lecter glanced pointedly at Will’s plate.

His mouth was dry and his stomach had clamped shut, so Will nodded. “Yes, thanks.”

Lecter stood. His chair skidded on the wood floor behind him. “I’d like to show you something.”

“Ok.” Will nodded carefully. “Sure.”

 

It was obvious that Will had made a few decisions. Hannibal could see evidence of four of them:

  1. This was not a rehab in any sense that he could accept as legitimate.
  2. Hannibal was dangerous and
  3. needed to be placated while Will evaluated his circumstances because
  4. he needed to escape as quickly as possible.



 

He led Will down the main hall and opened a solid oak door that whined on its thick hinges. He offered a gentle smile and waved Will through the threshold.

Will’s Adam's apple bobbed. His jaw flexed with determination and stepped inside. “Oh,” he said, relieved. “It’s a library.” He spun slowly looking at the shelves all around them. “It’s beautiful.” Will pulled the rolling ladder along then climbed up a few steps. He grinned and waved a book at Hannibal. “I love _Crime and Punishment_!”

Hannibal smiled back. He’d made his own decision.

Will climbed down and continued hunting. “ _The Mask of Sanity_! My copy is all marked up and dog-eared.”

”There’s a computer for your personal use.”

”I didn’t know Steven Pinker wrote a book about writing!”

Hannibal checked his watch again. “I have to meet with a patient. I’ll see you tonight. I took the liberty of putting your glasses next to the keyboard, in case you need them.”

Will turned. “What?”

As Hannibal closed the door on him, Will stood frozen. The clap of the door against its frame seemed to wake up. “How did you get my glasses?”

Hannibal locked the door. He checked the home security app on his phone to make sure the library was covered. Will was there, in black and white, from three angles, fighting with the doorknob.

“Hey!”

Very good. Hannibal smiled to himself and headed out with light, quick steps.

“HEY!”


	5. Searching & Fearless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will investigates his situation.

The first thing Will did was sit down and stare at the locked door. Before the phrase _What is this_ finished forming in his head, _Where am I_ would crash against it, _Who is he_ would drown that out, and some version of the cycle would churn again so that he found himself paralyzed for an indefinite amount of time.

The shock spun out of control inside him until Will burst into standing. He pulled the rolling chair below one of the two high nine-paned windows and looked out to get his bearings.

 _Christmas trees?_ Will squinted and stared through the metal frame. Towering thick blue-green spruce trees completely blocked his view. Will didn’t spot one brown needle on them. Great, more perfect things in his way.

Next, he tried the computer. No internet connection. “Of course.” Will slid his glasses on and rested one elbow on the smooth mahogany desk. It felt solid; probably too heavy to move.

Will refocused. _Now I need the internet_. He opened the WiFi settings and only a handful of nearby networks. One was for a printer, one was locked gibberish and numbers, the strongest signal was in a foreign language, likely Lector’s native tongue, but Casa_Blasko was open, albeit weak.

Will searched applications for a browser but couldn’t even find Internet Explorer.

“Really?” Will frowned and opened a terminal window. It took five times to get it right, but at last, he remembered _amd64_ and the successfully ran the prompt on the command line to install chrome.

 

 

 

 

> sudo apt-get install libxss1 libappindicator1 libindicator7 wget https://dl.google.com/linux/direct/google-chrome-stable_current_amd64.deb sudo dpkg -i google-chrome*.deb

 

Will spent the seven agonizing minutes Chrome took to download wondering when Lecter would come back. In seconds? Minutes? Hours?

Finally, it was ready. He hadn’t spent the time it took to download productively. He should have prioritized what to do with the internet connection for the unknown amount of time he’d have it.

First, he searched “Hannibal Lector, Louisiana.”

“Yes!” Ok, Will spelled his name wrong, but he was _right_. Lecter had a private practice in Metairie, just as he’d suspected. And he _was_ a neuropsychologist with an international practice.

Will breathed a little easier. Now he just had to get out of the house.

He quickly emailed Alana. 

 

 

 

> It’s a really long story, but I made a mistake. Whatever you’re thinking you’re right, I was wrong. Come help me, please. I'm stuck in Metairie without my wallet or phone. I hope to find a library or gas station to reach you from. I’ll try to make my way from the private practice of Dr. Lecter to Lake Pontchartrain.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks.
> 
>  
> 
> ~W

 

Something creaked at the front of the house. Maybe a door closed or maybe the old house was settling.

Will turned both ways, surveying the room for any kind of tool. He had the idea to break off a leg of the table and use it to smash the window. Unfortunately, the black metal separating the window panes looked miserably solid. He would have to find stable footing at the right height and angle to strike with enough force. Then there was the inconvenient matter of climbing up and out if he did succeed in breaking the window.

Now Will thought he heard footsteps. Worst of all, his curiosity was getting the best of him and, without knowing had much time he had left, he found himself squandering it by quickly searching “Chesapeake Ripper.”

“Will?”

He minimized the window and spun around gripping one arm of the rolling chair with white knuckles. “So, the door _does_ open.”

“It’s nice to see you as well.” Lecter shut the door behind him. Was that supposed to make a point?

Will crossed his arms. “Who’s paying for this?”

“You don’t have to worry about the cost. It’s taken care of.”

“Right, because I sure as hell can’t afford you. So who did this? What happened after the rehab center? How did I get here?”

“You seem agitated.”

“Yes. I found being imprisoned here exceptionally aggravating.”

Lecter peered around him at the computer screen, unimpressed. “You didn’t make any progress,” he said. Will couldn’t tell if it was a question or accusation.

“Progress?”

“That’s disappointing, though I expected some challenges with you. Therapy is difficult for people who struggle with relationships. It is a relationship, after all, and it can be very intense.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Will heard himself growling.

“And your relationships?”

Will coughed out a hollow laugh and jerked a shoulder. “I’m happy with the ones I have.”

“But you like people.”

“Not always- so?” Will's arms wrapped closer to his chest. “What does that even-”

“You want to be close to someone.”

Will flinched and scoffed. “No. No. That doesn’t work well for me.”

Though his cool expression didn’t change, Hannibal’s voice was softer. “You mean it hasn’t before?”

Will didn’t like the gentle concern. He didn’t want to talk anymore. “It’s all a trap. I mean- some people just like being alone.”

“True.” Lecter crossed the library with a leisurely pace and thoughtful expression.

The back of the rolling chair hit the mahogany desk.

Will took his glasses off, just to have something to do with his hands.

“Those people are usually drawn to  _things_. People who tinker, invent, work with their hands. Usually, they’re drawn to computers, machines, maybe even animals. But you, Will, you’re drawn to _people_.”

“No. I’m not.” Will smiled. “You said yourself that I’m all alone. How am I drawn to people? I just want to read and write.”

“About what?”

“I was, I mean, I did write about true crime. Okay, you’re right. But I’m done with that now-”

“What did you say about the Chesapeake Ripper?” Lecter interrupted. He had that patient, understanding look on his face again.

Will could throw up or let his guard down, but he did neither. _I need to be stable, so I should unscrew the wheels from the chair._ “I said 250,000 words about him,” Will joked.

Lecter had no sense of humor. That was unfortunate. He looked at Will like he expected better.

“Yes, fine! I said he communicates through his murders, is that what you want?”

Lecter’s expression lightened. He was pleased and Will felt it. He’d already been around Lecter too long. He had to get away soon. _I can raise the chair on stacks of books. Maybe I can detach the library ladder and use it to climb down._

“Why is he communicating? What’s the purpose?”

“I… I’m not sure. To impose himself, his beliefs, his power on the messy, stupid, meaningless world.”

“Very good, Will. What did you say he was missing?”

Will’s stomach warmed and turned. He stood and started pacing in the back corner, by the high windows. “A meaningful connection.”

“Yes. And what about you? Doesn’t your work communicate your ideas and beliefs to others? Aren’t you looking for a meaningful connection as well?”

Will stopped and stared at the dark hairs on his big toes. He wiggled one and thought. “Well… through my work, I think.”

“You wanted to have a connection with Hitler?”

“What?” Will shot Lecter a frustrated glare. “No. You don’t understand! He was a _problem_.” He started pacing again.

“And Dahmer? He was an approximation to that problem?”

“Yes.”

“It was unfulfilling for you?”

“Yes.”

“And the Ripper?”

“I…” Will frowned. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Do you think I was projecting something onto him?”

“No. I think, in fact, that you are remarkably astute. You could have been a wonderful psychologist if your life had started out differently.”

Will cringed at the thought. “No. I’d want to fix people and people aren’t things that can be _fixed_. I should have been a tinkerer.”

Hannibal grinned. “Remarkably astute,” he repeated. “Are you hungry?”

Will chewed his lip. “Yes, actually.” He smiled awkwardly. “I, uh, would cook for you but… do you like PB&J?”

Lecter raised an eyebrow and smirked gently.

“It’s an American classic,” Will mumbled. “Heh.”

“That’s nice of you to offer,” Hannibal said graciously. “You’re my patient and my guest. There is no need to repay me. I’ll put something together for us.” He turned to leave.

“Could you keep the door open this time?”

Hannibal looked back, returning Will’s dry tone with a sharp, silent stare.

“Please?”

“If you keep talking to me and trying to be honest. I expect you to join me in the kitchen.”

“Ok. Be right there.”

Hannibal gave a slight nod and left through the heavy door without shutting it.

Will sighed.

He went back to the desk and sat down. After putting his glasses back on, Will opened the minimized browser window. He was about to close it when his hand froze, hovering above the mouse.

 

 

 

> **RIPPER** strikes suspicious New Orleans rehab center. 3 DEAD
> 
> CNN 8 days ago
> 
>  
> 
> Were the latest **Ripper** victims running a human trafficking operation?
> 
> NOLA.com 3 hours ago
> 
>  
> 
> NOPD: 15th Ward Massacre Not **Chesapeake Ripper** : search is on for copycat killer.
> 
> Houston Chronicle 5 days ago

 

“Will?”

“Yeah-yes." Will hit the X to close the window and jumped up. "I’m coming.”


	6. Wrongs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tentative agreement is reached. Mistakes are made.

_Okay._ Will had been trying not to stare without avoiding eye contact completely. Bright pink slices of tuna tartare sat before him, cradled by fried wonton bowls, sprinkled delicately with fresh green cilantro and white sesame seeds.

 _Okay_. He’d been acting rather cavalier, in retrospect, talking to this man. Suddenly demuring to buy himself time would be too striking of a departure. Will poked a fried wonton bowl and gave it a turn. It spun unevenly to a short stop on the blue stoneware plate.

 _Okay. Come on. It’s okay._ He had to eat; he’d just said he was hungry.

In short, Will had to act like nothing had changed.

He glanced up, ready to smirk and compliment the impeccable presentation of the food, but his words withered under his captor’s penetrating examination. The man calling himself Lecter sat across an intimate kitchen island slowly tapping one finger after another, falling and rising, on the marble top.

Will popped a bowl in his mouth and nodded with satisfaction. He swallowed with effort and padded his lips with the cloth napkin on his lap. “The presentation is beautiful. It’s delicious… refreshing.”

“Do you enjoy white wine?” Lecter asked in an amiable tone, but it was a lie. He was concerned.

 _You’re not fooling me either._ “Sure. It would pair nicely with the fish.”

“I thought so as well.” Lecter stood and walked across the kitchen to consider a built-in crisscrossing wine rack.

“I’d like to call my lawyer now, please.”

“I called.” Lecter picked a bottle. He tilted his head, looking over the label.

“How-” Will had to check his incredulity. “I’m sorry? Who did you speak with?”

“I left a message with the law offices of Harris and Kretos.”

Will knew those names. “From…”

A corked popped in a shadowed corner of the kitchen.

“Did my agent send me here?” _Of course, not._ That was a useful outburst, though. _Like_ _nothing has changed_.

“It doesn’t matter, does it?”

“That’s why it’s paid for,” Will prodded. He ate another wonton bowl like a calm person would. “Right?” If he wasn’t a neuropsychiatrist, it was clearly in Will’s best interest for him to continue playing the part. The tall, controlled, athletic man came back holding two wine glasses by the stems in one hand and gripped the neck of a  bottle of Chardonnay in the other.

He poured them each a glass.

Will felt it again, gnawing at him. _I’ve been asking for this._ “Thank you.”

Will’s host pulled his barstool closer so that only a rounded corner separated them. “You look ill.”

“I’ve been ill since I woke up here.”

Lecter extended an open hand expectantly.

Will sipped his drink. “Mmm, amazing.”

“Your wrist, please.”

Will frowned. “My…”

“I’d like to take your pulse.”

Will gulped more wine, subtly as he could manage. “I don’t understand.”

 _“Will.”_ Unamused, yet again, Lecter waited.

He had no right to say Will’s name that way, as if he was owed anything. As if Will belonged to him. So Will pinched the glass’s delicate stem and took another indifferent draught.

“You’re pale. Maybe you’re feeling confused.”

Will swallowed and set his glass down, gazing into the wine.

“Maybe you’ve lost sight of the simple fact that situations have a limited number of possible outcomes. Having a productive therapeutic relationship is just one possible outcome of the time we **will** be spending together. That fact isn’t changing. This is the situation you’re in. No lawyer, or agent, or old friend-”

Will’s eyes nearly flicked up but he averted his gaze in time to avoid making eye contact.

“- is going to change the situation your choices have led you to. _Will,”_

He looked up now. The man calling himself Lecter’s honey brown eyes could be sold as tranquil, even numb, but the steady calm was actually the result of intense focus and continuous, effortless calculations upon recalculations. There was a sharpness and a light, a great, dark depth to the still waters.

“Do you feel we can’t have a therapeutic relationship?”

Will’s lips parted wordlessly. He pressed them together and offered his arm.

“Thank you.” Lecter held Will’s wrist between his thumb and two fingers, pressing on the pulse. Instead of looking at his watch, he locked eyes with Will. “What did you do while I was gone?”

“Do?” Will fumbled stupidly. Still, he raised an eyebrow as though it couldn’t matter. “I... traced the grains on the door. I walked around. I imagined going home.”

“You were on the computer when I came in.”

Will squared his jaw and tried to withdraw his wrist, but his gracious host held tight.

Like his silent calculations, it seemed effortless for Lecter to trap Will’s arm with three fingers. He wasn’t holding back or faking a smile. It was a warning. “What’s wrong?”

Will spoke in a dry but clear voice. “I don’t like being touched.”

“Your pulse is racing.” Lecter’s sharp eyes narrowed. “What on earth did you find?” Lecter released Will when he yanked away this time and sighed.

Will’s barstool screeched against the tile. He hugged his freed arm to his stomach. “I didn’t find anything.”

Lecter smirked and leaned back. “That was fast.”

“No- what was?” The more relaxed Lecter became, the more Will tensed, ready to fight or flee, uneasy about his chances.

“You may as well take another drink.” Lecter helped himself then swirled his wine with a bittersweet smile. “So you can ask me.”

“Ask…?” Will stammered. “Well…” he worried the seam of his pajama-like-pants by his knee. “I guess it’s obvious. Are you, that is, do you have any knowledge of or experience with forensic psychology?” Will muttered hesitantly.

Interested, Lecter leaned closer. “Yes. I’ve worked with prison populations before.”

“Okay,” Will exhaled. “Then… you’ll help me?”

A hunger soaked through Lecter’s cool expression.

 _Yes,_ Will thought. _There he is, in that perfect moment, on the precipice of getting what he’s been working toward._ At least there was that, if nothing else, some understanding of this man’s motivations.

“With the book?” Lecter confirmed.

“I’ve had writer’s block for years now. I mean, you know, with that one.”

“The Ripper sequel?”

Will nodded.

Lecter grinned.  

  


Will insisted on clearing the dishes from the island and countertops. There wasn’t much to do, but he needed to do it.

Lecter happily poured them more wine and took their glasses to the living area Will was sure he’d passed through before.

Following, because he couldn’t think of a better plan, Will sat in a comfortable chair across from Lecter. They faced one another in front of a stone fireplace that rose to the high ceiling.

“Start with the speculation you were asked to remove.”

“Oh.” Will drank some more. Now his stomach was warm and his muscles were easing. “What my agent really didn’t like was when I said he… he must be so bored. She said it wasn’t compelling. It isn’t a convincing motivation for violence. But I don’t mean a lack of entertainment; that would be like saying depression is a lack of joy. He doesn’t get stimulation from interacting with people. It’s too easy for him. I think he’s never been surprised by anyone.”

“Never is rather hyperbolic,” Lecter said, smiling. “I’m sure _someone_ has surprised him.”

Will shifted his weight and drank more wine.

“He probably even has a few friends.”

“Friends?”

“He’s never been caught, so he must lead a normal life in some ways.”

”I wouldn’t call them ‘friends’.”

“Are you sure you fleshed out your ideas?”

“Very.”

“Consider that perhaps your editor rejected this digression into his supposed personal life because it was a one-dimensional caricature.”

“Jesus!” Will stopped himself from jumping up. “I haven’t even explained anything! Yes, he wears the ‘mask of sanity,’ obviously, but what he would call a ‘friend’ is like what most people would call a pet. **That** is why I’m skeptical, not because I think he lives alone in a skull-shaped volcano!”

“Hmm.” Lecter rubbed his mouth as if it hid his patronizing amusement. “I think you’re right about the boredom. It’s not as though you don’t have good ideas, of course. This is upsetting for you, let’s investigate that further. How did you come up with this picture of his relationships? From a movie or-”

“Movie?!” Will spat. “No. No. You’re not even listening. You don’t understand.”

“Then help me instead of shutting down and cutting me off. Do you do that often?”

Will had crossed his arms and turned away. Yes, he would leave if he could, but, “That’s pretty melodramatic.” He tried to laugh. “Fine. Whatever. It’s nothing based on a _movie_ , it’s the crime scenes; how he communicates. He has a paradoxical problem with humans: he wants control, yet he needs a challenge. How could he get that with one person when he lacks empathy? When he’s so rational and manipulative? You see? I’m sure there are many people who don’t bother him, and even people he likes, but he sees himself… almost like a god among animals. If he likes someone, he won’t form a friendship in the true sense of the word. He’ll control and manipulate them…” _Into saying shit they shouldn’t. Into telling the truth when they should be lying._

“Will?”

“What?”

“You trailed off.”

“No. I was done.”

“Well, that’s extremely interesting. Now, what about you?”

“Me?”

“Yes. This is all about understanding your addiction after all. Don’t you also have a paradoxical problem with humanity?”

“No.”

“You want to help people. You want to love them all. Don’t roll your eyes at me,” he said sharply. “It’s rude.”

Will’s face grew hot. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. He shifted again. “I’m tired.”

“You’ll give me twenty more minutes.”

With a shrug, Will acquiesced.

“You understand everyone but no one has ever understood you.”

“Now who’s hyperbolic?” Will said with a teasing smile. _Right, no sense of humor._

“Who has then?”

“Has what?”

“Understood you?”

Will grew melancholy. “I don’t know. I don’t do well with people.”

“And who did you fail to understand within minutes of meeting them?”

There was no way out and not enough wine to hide in. Will felt raw and exposed, really, finally seen, and painfully vulnerable.

“There’s your paradox, you want to be understood but you need to protect yourself against anyone getting too close.”

“Not anyone…” Will whispered.

“Who?”

Will looked up and remembered himself. “I couldn’t read you within minutes.”

“I don’t know, Will. Perhaps you did.”

Will held his breath, scared the mask would fall away and the game would end if he made the wrong face or blinked the wrong way.

“Am I wrong about you? If so, help me by telling me how.”

“You’re right,” Will snapped. “What about me? Aren’t I right?”

“How would I know?”

 _Asshole._ “Well, what do you THINK?”

“Your intuition is the most impressive I’ve ever come across.”

That caught Will off guard. “Really?”

“I think your overall assessment of the facts is very likely correct. I wonder what you think a ‘true friendship’ is? Isn’t there manipulation in every close relationship?”

“Not like this,” Will insisted.

“Is that a matter of superior ethics or lack of ability?”

“Both.”

“For you maybe. But for most people, I can tell you, it’s simply that latter.”

“You’re justifying manipulating people based on the fact that it’s possible? That confusing what is with what ought to be. In a true friendship, you consider what the other person wants and needs. If she needs space because they’ve found a healthy relationship, a good friend would let them go, because that person’s happiness matters to them as much as their own.”

“And what if you were the person who wanted to leave but doing so would hurt your friend deeply?”

“Well…”

Lecter let the question linger until he felt his point was made. “Who is ‘she’? Your agent?”

“No.”

“What if your agent did send you here, in the interest of your health and well being, while you were unable to decide what was best? Would she be as manipulative as you imagine the Chesapeake Ripper to be with his fake friends? Does that make you less than human to her? Or someone whose life is worth saving?”

“I don't want to talk about this.”

“You’re very protective of her.”

Will wondered if he’d signed out of his email. He invariably did. It should have signed him out by now, anyway.

Lecter looked over his shoulder at the library then back at Will with a _tsk-tsk_ smile.

“No-”

Lecter stood and Will followed, then changed direction and sprinted for the kitchen door instead.

 

He didn’t hear the first beep and ignored the device at his ankle when it beeped twice.

When he was about to turn the doorknob Will was knocked off his feet. He gritted out a clenched scream and rolled on the cold tile, clutching his fluttering heart.

 

“I think you’ve been lying to me, Will.” He was still groaning and panting on the kitchen floor when Lecter’s shadow swallowed him. “I told you, we will be spending time together. That fact won’t change.”


	7. Character

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal learn more about what kind of person they’re actually contending with.

“You’re clutching your chest. Does it hurt?”

“Get away.” Will scrambled back, the soles of his feet scraping against the tile.

“Easy.” Lecter stepped closer as Will pulled himself up by a countertop. “Take your time. You may faint.”

Will flung a damning finger at his ankle. “That thing shocked me!”

“You’re not ready to go outside.”

“You said it only vibrates!”

“I said that it had vibrated. It did, that time. This time, you crossed the threshold.”

Will inched backward, his hand using the countertop as a guardrail. “Just… stay _back_.”

“I need to check your heart rate.”

“Right. You’ve been checking me for arrhythmia, for when this inevitably happened. Right?” Will held his head. His heart steadied, but every so often, pounding turned to bubbles that made him gasp. _Almost there._ “Are… are you really a doctor?”

“I’m everything I told you I am and more. You know what this is, though you’ll probably have to go through several phases before accepting it. Keep in mind, this was _going_ to happen. That should comfort you.”

Will’s fingertips found the wood block. “I don’t understand.”

“You referenced my work in your book about me. What other explanation is there? This was meant to be.”

“ _Lecter_. H. Lecter. That is your real name.” He stepped back and pulled a bird’s beak paring knife from the wooden knife block.

“ ** _Will_** ,” Lecter warned. “Don’t-”

But Will had already pushed the curved point into his throbbing carotid artery until it pierced the skin.

“Another surprise.” Lecter smiled dryly. “But it’s a poor choice.”

“Oh, I think it’s the only choice I have. You told me your _real_ name.”

In the low light of the kitchen, Lecter’s eyes seemed black. Dead but shining. Shark’s eyes. And he was circling. “I told you, I have not lied to you.”

“Bullshit. It doesn’t mean you’re honest, it means you don’t expect me to ever leave here.”

“You’re too agitated to think rationally,” his tone was severe. He wasn’t having fun anymore. “Your knife scenario doesn’t end well-”

“But it’s the best ending I can hope for, isn’t it? Fast. _You_ won’t make it fast. It’s the only revenge I can have; taking your control away. Ending your game on _my_ terms.”

“But you won’t die. You won’t slice your throat. You will only weaken yourself-”

“Or pierce the artery. I can feel my pulse in the knife’s handle. Once my blood starts spurting out… it’s a quick end. If you didn’t think I was right you would have overpowered me by now.”

“And if you wanted to die, you wouldn’t keep talking. So we have a starting point for some negotiation; I don’t want you to die either. What _do_ I want?”

The knife sank a little deeper when Will swallowed. “The sequel?”

“In the pragmatic sense, yes. In a larger sense… you know my motivations. Your corpse is antithetical to my desires. Why don’t we sit down?”

“But you told me your real name, or, the name you use for your career-”

“It is my name.”

“So then ONE of us is going to kill me!” Will’s throat grew thick. His eyes stung as his own words resonated within him. _Here? This is it? What was my life for?_

“Listen to me,” Lecter said, raising his voice.

“I think I’d be a lot nicer about it than you would.”

“I know Alana.”

“... What?”

“That’s why and how you can leave. She’s my leverage. I want you to finish your work. I have no desire to see your eyes unfocused and your jaw hanging dumbly, a rigid mass of cold flesh that a great mind once operated.” Lecter gripped the island with one hand. His rising chest seemed to contract painfully. “There are... so _few_ of them.”

The curved knife eased back. Blood tricked to Will’s strange, soft shirt. “Alana?”

“She was your agent.”

_Yes, was._

“She is one of the first things I learned about you.”

“You know that I contacted her?”

“Sit down, Will.”

“How? A camera? A Trojan- remote access,” he decided. “That… so, that’s really the point? The book?”

“I didn’t expect you to, well, do what you did and reach out to someone. But it works out so well for us because now I know for certain she’s important to you; the woman you’re so protective of. If you give me what I want, I can give you what you want. What could be simpler?”

“You mean… I can leave because if I go to the police…”

“It would be a matter of time.”

Will’s shoulders sank under a heavy mix of relief and resignation.

“Maybe they would catch me, probably not, but I would find her and, you know, that kind of betrayal would warrant a _personal_ response. Something special.” Lecter slowly, carefully began to close the space between them. “Something to give you nightmares. To make you question every shadow and corner. I see you distracting yourself with plans for revenge as you drown in regret and whiskey. You’d look for me hopelessly. Your obsession would consume you until you’d try to drink her eyes out of your memory.”

Lecter reached out and plucked the knife from Will’s hand. “I wouldn’t come for you until you were pickled in misery. Your eyes would be yellowed then and your last, brief moment of clarity would be recognizing my face and begging me to kill you because the nightmares had bled into your waking hours, because the shaking, pain, and terror won’t stop, because your glass bottles are empty and all your pretty words are gone.”

After sliding the knife back in the block, Lecter gently cupped one side of Will’s face, his long fingers creeping into Will’s dark, wavy hair. “I’ll make you tell me I was right; that once you were a precious and fragile thing, and you will apologize to me for ruining that before I tear your putrid meat to shreds. Even the alligators won’t attend to your remains.”

Will’s empty hand fell to his side.

“Or, you can write the book you want to anyhow, with the unique opportunity to interview your subject. Then, knowing what you do, you can go home and start your next work. Is that so bad?”

 

Will licked his lips and flexed his jaw as though he would speak but remained mute, transfixed. Hannibal’s deft fingers worked quickly down the front of Will’s soiled shirt, opening it. Blood is tedious to get out of fabrics.

Upon removing the shirt, Hannibal found Will’s chest had flushed; another surprise. He wasn’t hyperventilating, he was breathing deeply. His pupils had expanded, rushing against blue and turquoise irises.

Hannibal smiled. _Now we know you’re mine._ “You’re still bleeding.”

Will remained paralyzed, not having recovered from the loss of his only plan. Hannibal’s feelings were overwhelming and altering his own. His brow furrowed, everything rational inside him locked in argument with what his empathy knew to be true.

Hannibal gave a nudge to the winning side to unlock him. “What must it be like to make love to an empath, reflecting and magnifying your pleasure, enjoying things because you do?”

Will broke away, startled, and stumbled back.

“Don’t run. You know what I am and what that would do.”

“Jesus.” Will grabbed his head with both hands, holding it together. “It’s _you_.”

“Yes.”

“What have I done?”

“We were drawn together. This was meant to be.”

“Stop, please!” Will stretched out a halting hand, still clasping his skull with the other. “I want my phone,” he cried, as though asking for a security blanket.

“Then you’ll have to sit down. Here,” Hannibal gestured to the barstool where Will had sat previously. It occurred to Hannibal that it was his now. “Look at the mess you’ve made.”

Will regarded the trail of blood drops he’d left on the kitchen floor. “I’m sorry.”

“Let’s dress your wound.” Shock makes people so malleable. It’s an excellent opportunity for adjustments. “You’re going to stay there when I leave.”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful. When you’re clean you may have your phone, as long as you keep cooperating.” He folded the blood-stained shirt neatly and went upstairs.

 

As the world inside Will quieted and numbed, the physical world around him crystalized - a detail he’d overlooked.

He heard water running upstairs.

 

When Hannibal returned, Will was sitting in the same place and position. He smiled as he walked into the kitchen. “Here,” he said softly, to make Will aware of his presence. He turned on the bright lights. “Let’s see what you’ve done.”

Will was searching the ceiling for something.

“You won’t find the cameras. They’re there for your safety.” Hannibal took Will’s scruffy chin in one hand and turned his head.

Will obeyed, baring his neck.

“That was rather close,” Hannibal remarked bitterly. He glanced at his beautiful knives. He should have taken more precautions.

“There’s no vents in your house.”

Hannibal raised an eyebrow as he cleaned around the wound. The neck bleeds so easily. “They’re on the floor. The same color as the floorboards.”

“Is that a radiator?”

“Yes.” Will’s blood made a healthy crimson line to his shoulder where it branched out into bright red trickles around his cool white arm and chest. “It’s an old house,” Hannibal remarked absently.

Will hissed, sucking air through his teeth.

Hannibal realized he was bending toward Will’s warm, escaping life.

“Ah.” Will grabbed Hannibal’s bicep and held tight as Hannibal licked up from his collarbone. His nose brushing against the base of Will’s hairline, taking in his sweet scent. He stopped at the wound and pulled away.

Will kept hold of Hannibal’s arm, though he stared at his feet, as Hannibal pressed clean gauze to the cut and secured it with surgical tape.

“All better. I drew a bath for you to get the rest off.”

“I’d like to go outside,” Will mumbled.

“I told you several times now, you’re not ready for that.”

Will swallowed thickly. “Okay.”

“Come,” Hannibal coaxed. “You can hold onto me if you’d like.”

Will withdrew his hand sharply. “I didn’t mean…”

“Or I can help you.” Hannibal grinned and took Will’s arm.

Will stared into his eyes. “I never saw that before either.”

“What?”

“The red tint. Like cherry cola on a porch railing.”

“Are you feeling lightheaded?”

Will nodded.

“It’s alright, I have you now. Isn’t that fortunate for both of us?”


	8. Shortcomings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Problems are found in Will and Hannibal's tenuous arrangements.

Complicated, remarkable, surprising. Hannibal added ‘stubborn’ to his mental list. Remarkably, surprisingly stubborn, in fact.

As soon as Hannibal removed the monitor, Will had asked if it would stay off.

“It’s supposed to be waterproof, but I’d rather take the manufacturer’s word for it than test its limitations on you.”

Hannibal had placed a towel on the warming rack and turned back to find Will holding a hairdryer, searching for an outlet. “There are none in the bathroom,” he said severely.

“I know. It’s so odd.” Will didn’t jump when Hannibal spoke so he didn’t see himself as being caught; a reassuring sign. He was examining the power cord.

Ah, Hannibal realized, another step towards acceptance. “Will, put that down please.”

“Oh, no, I was just distracted.” He stood in the boxers Hannibal had given him, poet’s eyes growing wide, a solicitous smile warming his finely carved face. “I wasn’t trying to renegotiate. The water is…” but he trailed off because it was close enough. Still, Hannibal believed him.

No need to make that clear.

Will put the hairdryer back in the woven basket under the glass sink, where he’d found it. “Why can’t I go outside?”

“I don’t trust your judgment.” Hannibal glanced pointedly at the hairdryer and back to Will, who immediately looked away.

“I don’t trust _you_. Let’s be practical. You have your leverage. Can’t I at least look out a window?”

“I thought you wanted your phone. Which is it?”

“Why do I have to choose?”

“You’ve stopped being cooperative. Let’s be practical; what incentive do I have to reward that behavior?”

Will scratched the back of his head. “I will… try to cooperate better.” He approached the claw foot tub but stopped, a finger lingering on the curved edge. “Why won’t you leave?” He glanced up. “I cooperate best when I understand.”

“Raise your hand, like this. Nearly to your jaw.”

Will obeyed.

“Now touch your neck.”

Will’s hand dropped before his fine fingers reached the gauze.

“Understand?”

“Heh. Maybe you do have a sense of humor.”

Hannibal has a wonderful sense of humor, actually. “I’ve seen your naked body, as you must have realized by now, and many other men’s and women’s in my professional career.”

“And in your hobby? Right?” Will slipped off his boxers and stepped into the bath with a pleasurable sigh. “I’m not suicidal. I just don’t want to die like… they did.”

“You are not like those animals.”

Will settled in the bath, his hands gripping the smooth sides. “What did you put in the water? It smells so, um, so comforting. Vanilla? Clove?”

Hannibal didn’t answer.

“I’m sorry, did I insult you?”

“Hardly. You insulted yourself.” Hannibal walked over and sat on the edge of the tub. He rolled up one sleeve, then the other, until they each sat neatly at his elbows.

Will’s face had a cherubic quality. A Dutch impressionist would have an easy time highlighting his symmetrical features with the most constrained use of heavenly light.

“The best predictor of future behavior is past behavior. The reckless choices you’ve made previously don’t bode well for the ones you may yet make.”

Will pulled his knees closer to his chest. “That isn’t true, present situation excluded.”

Hannibal grabbed a fistful of dark wavy hair and shoved Will’s head under the thrashing water. It was vanilla, clove, orange zest, and brown sugar, which made the bath smell ‘comforting.’

Will twisted, kicked out and clawed at Hannibal’s arm until Hannibal pulled him up into the air.

As Will coughed and hacked, Hannibal dried his arms. “If I wanted to kill you, I would. I could easily have done so any of the days you were unconscious, but I cared for you instead.”

Will gasped and panted, curled in on himself.

“The situation you find yourself in is the best scenario you could have hoped for. Do you have any idea what they were going to do with you?”

“The- the methadone clinic?”

“It was as you suspected.” Hannibal stood and slid his hands into his pockets. “Human traffickers. You walked right into a vipers nest and drank the venom.”

“You were following me.”

“Yes.”

“Not just that day.”

“No. Not just that day.”

Will ran the sponge across his skin mechanically, the idea weighing on him. “Thank you.” He wasn’t sure he if he meant it yet.

 _He will._ “You’re welcome.”

 

Will sat on the bed Hannibal had given him, longing for the phone sitting just out of reach. Hannibal swabbed his arm. “Is this necessary?”

“We both need to rest.”

Will frowned at the pinch. “Can I please have my phone now?”

“As promised.”

It was dead.

Will shot him an incensed glare even as his eyelids weighed heavily on Mediterranean blue eyes. “Very funny.”

“Thank you.”

Will sank into bed.

“I thought so too.”

 

“Will?” Lecter was dressed in a new charcoal and burgundy three-piece suit.

The bed was impossibly soft. Will seemed to have melted into it. He reluctantly rolled onto his back and rubbed the crusty sleep from the corners of his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Come, join me for lunch.”

 

“That was delicious. Thank you.” Lecter had allowed Will to clear the table and help with dishes. “There isn’t much for me to do.”

“I try to clean as I go, time permitting.”

Will shut the dishwasher and dried his hands. “Did you leave this morning?”

“Join me in the library.” Lecter made an open gesture indicating Will should follow. “Is Alana Bloom going to be a problem for me?”

“No.”

“I received a call from her last night. I need you to fix this.” He stopped in front of the library entrance to face Will. “If you don’t, I’ll have to. That would be a problem.”

“I’ll fix it. I’ll do it now.” Will sat at the computer and opened his email with Lecter watching over his shoulder. “I see the monitor is back on my ankle.”

“Yes, that’s best for now.”

 

 

> Alana,
> 
> Sorry about that last email. I think I’ve finally had the breakdown you always worried about.
> 
> I’m taking a break and getting some help.
> 
> ~W.

 

“Okay.” Will ran his fingers through his hair. “What do you think?”

“Good. Tell her that you’ll contact her when your manuscript is ready.”

“Right,” Will said softly.

“I can take care of the rest, should the need arise.”

Will spun around. “What does that mean?”

Hannibal stood straight yet comfortable in front of his wall of books. “If she calls again. So, you were born with a talent but you’ve also honed a complementary set of skills over your lifetime. What dangers did you learn to avoid as a child by reading violent people?”

Will grimaced and rubbed his face. “I’m my least favorite subject. Why don’t we talk about you instead?”

“Was your mother ill?”

“She died of a heart attack when I was two.”

“How unfortunate for young Will. Then you were left with your father or your grandparents?”

“My father.”

“And was he lost without your mother?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Did he drink?”

“Everyone drinks.”

“So you had to learn to read his unpredictable moods?”

“It wasn’t that dramatic.” Will shifted in the rolling chair and eased it back into the desk. “What about your parents?”

“I don’t remember either, sadly. There are more monsters in your shadows.”

“Why does that matter? Why does anything about me matter?”

“That sounds like something a depressed person would ask.”

“You know what I mean. You want me to work on the book; a book not about me.”

“All art is a form of self-revelation and knowledge is a powerful thing. Right now, you know enough about me to write two books but I know little about you. I’m unhappy with the disadvantage that leaves me with.”

“Is there an incentive to cooperate? Like going outside?”

Hannibal joined Will, leaning with one hand on the desk. “You’re particularly stubborn on that point.”

“I’m a stray. I don’t belong inside.”

“I can rescue, mend and feed you well but you’ll still want to run?”

“No, I… I won’t do anything to jeopardize my friend. I only chafe inside walls like this after so long. If answer your questions, then I can go outside?”

“Very well. Tomorrow, you’ll have to answer more questions and write something.”

“Okay. Next question, then.”

“Someone noticed you when you’re father didn’t and made you feel special when you were alone. They also scared and hurt you when you were young and helpless. Who was it?”

“Fuck you.”

“Let’s talk in the living room.”

 

The living room echoes and amplifies. The high ceiling, hardwood floors, and climbing stone fireplace framed every scene that happened between the two tall backed suede chairs, which faced each other. Will dragged both sprawling hands down his face. “I’m sorry… about before, in the library.”

“Perfectly understandable in the context of the conversation. In therapy, that outburst would be called 'resistance.' It means we’re looking in the right place.”

“But you’re not my psychiatrist.”

“No. But perhaps I could be something approximating that, as you have been to me.”

“I hope that didn’t offend you either; my, uh, attempt at analysis.”

“Not at all. I told you, I’m a fan of your work. I thought, sometimes, reading your book that the feeling was mutual.”

“Well… that’s complicated.”

“I’ll bet.”

Will huffed and peered over Lecter’s head at a painting sitting on the fireplace. “I had a difficult time looking away. You seemed to be my opposite. Maybe I was trying to understand myself after all. But, writing that book, I tried to see your ‘work’ from your position. It wasn’t sympathy, but an attempt at understanding. Is that a Rothko?”

Lecter didn’t need to twist himself to answer. “Very good. Do you like abstract art?”

“No- sometimes. I like his work a lot, but I don't think I'd be able to explain why.”

“It’s open to interpretation yet vivid enough to evoke something meaningful. What do you see?”

“I see… a light surrounded by a dark, warm, hunger. Sometimes it looks like the light is pushing back the crimson waves, shining alone. Sometimes it looks like it’s being swallowed.”

“And what do you feel when you look at me?”

A few chilly heartbeats passed in silence before Will answered.

“Cold. Focused. Searching, scanning everything, as natural as breathing, calculating faster than I -Will- actually can. I’m always bored. Now I’m Interested. I feel like, there are powerful, vital, consuming passions I’m so far removed from that when one inevitably emerges in my thoughts or actions, I pluck it, not recognizing it as part of myself and think, ‘What an odd and ugly thing.’ I think the world is all gray and I’m starving for color.”

Hannibal nodded. “Why, with your penchant for insight, have relationships always been difficult for you?”

“I don’t know that I’d put it like that. I like people but I need space even more.”

“Have you ever dated?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a virgin, Will?”

“No!”

“How has intimacy been for you?”

Will’s face flushed. “Successful, I suppose? Everyone seemed happy.”

“Were you?”

“I mean- of course. I made them,” Will made an obtuse circular gesture, “very satisfied.”

“But were you satisfied?”

Will furrowed his brow. “Yes. I answered your question.”

“Interesting.”

Lecter stood and approached slowly. “Let me ask another way.” He extended his hard, slender arm and placed two fingers under the fresh white gauze he must have taped to Will’s neck as he’d slept, hours before. “Has anyone else made your pulse race like this simply by touching you before?”

Will looked away and, with some difficulty, swallowed the knot in his throat. “One did.”

“Did it feel better or worse than my touch?”

“Much worse,” Will whispered.

“I see.” He withdrew his hand. “Give me a name.”

Will blinked, blank and disconnected. “It wasn’t a big deal. It was so long ago…”

“Give me a name and then we’ll go outside.”

Will’s eyes crept, jerking, until they landed, unfocused, on Hannibal’s shark’s eyes. “I don’t think I’m afraid of you. But **I am**. I feel insane.” _You’re tricking me._

“Tell me his name and we'll go outside together.”

“But…” there were so many reasons not to, “he probably has a family. What if-”

Lecter knelt and cupped his face. “It’s just two words, Will.”

Will took a deep breath.

 

“Are you sure you’re ready?” Hannibal felt something unpleasant yet exciting once he unlocked the door. It was too late to keep from proceeding. He had to know what would happen next.

Will’s hands curled into fists. “You promised.”

“Very well.” Hannibal opened the door and watched Will cross the threshold.

Will put the sole of one foot onto the pebbled path, then the other. He looked around the budding garden. “What the hell is this?” Crisp winds crisscrossed through his curly hair. All around them rocky earth and damp black soil cascaded down into a vast misty dark blue valley. Waving yellow grass and white boulders jutted out in sparse patches, clawing against the steep drop.

“Do you want to come back inside now?”

Will shivered but couldn’t even warm his arms by rubbing them. He stumbled back, retreating down the pebbled path. A dirt road left the house, rounded a patch of evergreens and dropped out of sight past a cliff.

“Or do you want to stay out here with the wolves?”

“That’s not mist… those are clouds,” Will murmured. “Where am I?”

“Very far from Louisiana.” Lecter laid a heavy hand on Will’s shoulder. “Do you want to come inside now?”

Will blinked and blinked again. “Yes.”


	9. Harms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boundaries are pushed to the breaking point with significant consequences.

In movies, prisoners tally their days with scratches on a concrete wall or marks on a calendar. Maybe that makes sense for someone who has a finite sentence but for Will time had never been more meaningless. He’d just arrived on this barren mountain, yet he’d always been here. He couldn’t accept his situation, yet it grew exponentially more real as his previous life became more dreamlike.

Sometimes familiar faces would elude his memory, changing each time they nearly came into focus like figures in the dark. But hers didn’t.

The routine Lecter orchestrated was difficult not to fall into. They ate, talked, Will would be left to write, they ate, back to the library then, before dinner the library door would open so Will could wander around the house and after dinner, they would talk again over a glass of wine.

Will went outside a few more times. He discovered the monitor at his ankle wasn’t simply responding to invisible barriers. Lecter was controlling it another way as well, likely through his watch though Will never knew for sure.

As a kid, Will had lived in a trailer park in Big Lake where he learned to shoot nutria and dig for crawfish, a farmhouse in Lake Charles where he climbed the wide smooth branches of sprawling sycamores, houseboats on the muddy banks of the Mississippi where he fished with his father, townhouses in tiny tight-knit cities nestled in Appalachian valleys. As an adult, he attended college on a tree-lined campus with shady lawns and tried ice fishing on Lake Erie’s endless white horizon. He’d learned to like climbing up into Mid Atlantic cities near claustrophobic endless discoveries. He’d enjoyed black bean chili under swaying palm trees as steel drums played down the street.

But Will had never seen a place like this.

There was no glow from the city, but a sky full of stars. No traffic, no sirens, but gusts of wind winding through towering pines, bird songs in the morning, and the occasional chorus of mournful howls in the distance at night.

Still, Lecter drove his car down the dirt road and came back with fresh meat and vegetables an hour later. So a town couldn’t be that far and even though the WiFi capability had been disabled on the library computer, it only took that first time to know that other people weren’t far away either.

All good to know.

Meanwhile, Will had a few hard-won victories. The shots to knock him out had stopped, though his door was locked when he went to bed. That meant he could read at night and use his private bathroom to shower before the sun rose simply because he felt like it.

He made Lecter drop the charade of pretending Will was a drug addict, though the doctor continuously slipped into psychoanalysis. Will supposed he couldn’t help that. He’d also begun a surrealist novel in spite of Lecter’s initial objections. He obviously wanted Will to be as obsessed with him as vice versa and he could never know how true that already was.

Though he tried not to admit it, the stability forced upon him was good for Will, who didn’t know he could do  _stable,_ much less for however long this had been.

Familiarity can be a treacherous thing. As good as he begrudgingly felt and in spite of the work he was producing, Will knew the remote world of Lecter’s making was a slow, sweet poison. Seeing him disheveled in pajamas a few lazy mornings gave Dr. Lecter the false appearance of being human. When he nodded off in front of the fireplace after a long day doing god knows what, he looked softer, even vulnerable. And Will made him laugh and that was terribly seductive. And then he was kind, or pretended to be, but worst of all as self-aware as his actions were, they didn’t _feel_ like lies.

Like when Will emerged, free from the library one evening and was transported by the smell of roux being stirred in the stove.

 

“What is this?” Will hung at the edge of the kitchen.

“Shrimp etouffee and boudin.”

“Oh my god.”

“Next time, I’ll get crawfish. Would you like that?” Hannibal glanced over his shoulder when Will didn’t answer. He was standing behind the island, looking lost. “Is something wrong?”

“You’re really happy.”

“Shouldn’t I be?”

“It smells like my mawmaw’s house. She was always happy to see me too. ‘Oh, sha-sha!’ She’d pat my back and hurry me to the kitchen.”

“It sounds like she was special to you.”

“I only stayed with her half a dozen times or so but she acted happy to see me each time. Even though I had nothing to give her and my father was dropping my weight onto her shoulders. Even though I only understood about half of what she said.” Will rubbed his nose and sat on his barstool. “Except that last time.”

“Last time?”

“She thought I was my father and kept asking for my mother, uh, her daughter.”

Lecter took the cast iron skillet off the heat. “Dementia is a terrible thing to witness in someone we love. It robs us of them many times over.”

“I think she hated my father. She told him, well, me, that I was the only good thing he ever did - giving me to my mother. So I thought… I think she loved me.”

Lecter stopped spooning rice onto their plates. “Your mother?”

Will rolled his lips together and swallowed. “Yes.”

“I’m sure she did, very much.”

Will smiled sadly. “Yeah. Do you ever think about that? I mean, about your parents?”

“Certainly. I wonder what they would think of me. I’d like to believe that a mother could love… even this.” He smirked and poured the meaty gravy onto the rice.

“How did you get these spices?”

“Was Alana always happy to see you?”

“Uh,” Will laughed dryly. “No. I couldn’t say that.”

“She wrote to you.”

“Are you reading my email?”

“She doesn’t want you to work on the sequel.”

“That doesn’t matter. Jack does and he’s my agent now.”

“Good. Sit at the table, please. I’ll bring the food.”

 

"Do you like it? You haven't said anything."

“Are you writing emails in my name, Dr. Lecter?”

 _‘Dr. Lecter.’_ Will was putting distance between them. He refused to call Hannibal by his given name despite being asked to do so on more than one occasion. When he was really pissed off he would refer to Hannibal as ‘doctor’ as though they’d only just met.

“I have to protect my interests. It’s not such a drastic measure. There are worse things.”

“Well, that’s dangerous for you and your interests. You won’t sound like me.”

“No one has noticed so far. Maybe no one knows you well enough to tell the difference.”

Will’s furious indignation was terribly charming. “How many people am _I_ talking to, doc-tor?”

 _There it is._ It was difficult not to poke too much or too hard. Will was very sensitive but so creative when he felt God was on his side. His revenge was entertaining. “Not many.”

"How many is 'not many'?"

“Do you suppose the fact that your friends can’t tell you from my impression means that I know you better than anybody?”

“You’re ruining a good meal,” Will said through gritted teeth.

Hannibal smiled and savored his Riesling; a nice contrast to the smoky spices. “Even Alana.”

Will’s fork clanked in his bowl. “I love Alana. Who loves you?” Will paled as Hannibal repressed a smile.

That was quite a display of resistance. It was telling that Will lept to defending himself against the entirely absent assertion that he loved Hannibal.

Will covered his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“That was hurtful, Will.”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“I forgive you.” Making forgiveness especially easy was the utility of Will’s guilt. Hannibal took the opportunity to introduce a difficult topic. “Let's go to the living room and start over."

 

Hannibal poured them each a sipper of port after lighting a fire. "I decided to go on a short trip. There’s something I have to take care of. My problem is what to do with you while I’m gone.”

Will looked up miserably instead of his eyes sparkling while his mind reeled with possibility.  

_Good._

“Let’s think through the options then.”

“It should be four days. That’s a long time to let you wander around the house. It’s an even longer time to leave you unconscious. I don’t have anyone to take care of you. What I’m trying to think of is some way to trust you.”

“What about your leverage?”

“That won’t work in this case.” Because Hannibal didn’t plan on Will leaving anymore. Besides, Alana had been so courteous in their few conversations. “There has to be something more immediate. We only have a day to figure it out.”

“A day?”

“Let’s sleep on it. I’d love to find a way to leave you here alone as my guest, free to make yourself comfortable here. You still look sorry. Make it up to me,” he suggested cheerfully.

“I can promise you.”

The fire popped and cracked. Hannibal swirled his port wine. “Promise me what?”

“From the day after tomorrow until four days from then, from the time you drive down the dirt road until you come back with your luggage in hand, I promise I won’t try to leave, or contact anyone, or…” he frowned uncomfortably, “do anything to compromise myself. I promise you.”

Hannibal’s wet tongue ran across the back of his teeth. “Alright, Will. I trust you and your word. I was thinking you might answer some questions for me to make amends.”

Will nodded and drank his port.

“You talked about your grandmother but not your grandfather. Why?”

“He died when my mother was young.”

“Do you know why?”

“Heart attack. I think I didn’t want to get married and have a kid in part because I was afraid to die when they were two.”

“What does a child have to do with it?”

“Well, his mother died when he was young too. I think the stress of a terrible toddler-”

“How old were they when they died?”

“I don’t know. Thirty something?”

“What made you think your mother's death had anything to do with you when you were too young to remember it?”

“Well… I guess I was sensitive, difficult. I had night terrors that kept her up.”

“Who told you it was your fault?”

“No, no one did.”

“Your grandmother?”

“No, she never blamed me!”

“Your father?” Hannibal asked gently.

“He didn’t _say_ it was anyone’s fault. It’s not like he was…”

“But he told you everything you may have done, in his mind, to cause her death. That’s a shame. I’m sorry to hear that, Will.”

“It’s really not a big deal. I was too sensitive…”

“No, you’re not. You are just as you should be. Come, let’s go to bed. I’m going to bring you the best boudin sausage in Louisiana- _very special._ And crawfish, if I can.” He helped Will up and placed a hand on his back.

“Thanks,” Will smiled, “But I doubt you can get that through airport security.”

Hannibal laughed. “I brought an unconscious friend here. Customs is not an issue for me.”

Will gave Hannibal a sidelong glance as they ascended the stairs together.

 

 _One day._ Will removed his glasses and set them on the mahogany desk. He rubbed his mouth and sighed through his nose. _He’s going to Louisiana and bringing back special meat. He isn’t depending on Alana as leverage because I put her above him._

He looked at the locked door and then the high window.

 

Hannibal packed while Will was safely locked in the library. What would happen once he left tomorrow and Will had free reign to explore the house? It felt like opening the door again, exciting and uncomfortable.

 

Unscrewing the wheels was quick work. Setting the chair on stacks of books was more difficult than he’d anticipated, they kept shifting under his weight until he got it right.

Then Will laid on his back and kicked the foot of the desk leg with both heels until it cracked up top and finally snapped.

 

Hannibal froze in the middle of folding an undershirt. He thought he’d heard something.

Then he heard a crash and checked the library cameras using his smartwatch. Will was standing on a chair using something to smash through window panes. He shocked Will to stop him and started down the hallway.

He quickened his pace when Will clutched his heart on the tiny screen at his wrist and sprinted downstairs when he collapsed.


	10. Amends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things tear and mend. 
> 
> Tags begin to matter, so please check them out.

A wood beam stretching across the library ceiling came into focus. It was black with dust on the bottom edge. How had he let that happen?

Hannibal gingerly touched the warm, fat ache at his temple. A trace of blood, running through his hairline and stopping just above his ear had dried and hardened.

The swollen bruise throbbed when he jerked up to sitting. His feet were bare. Hannibal suspected his coat was gone as well. A thick black book laid beside him. A clean knife was left abandoned on his broken desk. The cameras would fill in the rest, but for now, Hannibal understood what he needed to.

He picked up the book to view its spine. _Dracula: unabridged and annotated._ Maybe Will chose it for its hardbound leather cover and weight. _Maybe he thinks I’m setting off for his Mina._

  


Even though Will had planned this, it still felt like he was only watching things unfold. His next objective was to delay Lecter’s plan by making him miss his flight and, hopefully, getting Alana out of New Orleans.

Each of Lecter’s victims -past and future- justified his death ten times over and yet, Will hadn’t wrestled with himself long, fillet knife in his fist, before his inability to kill Lecter was made unalterably clear. He kept thinking about that and what it meant as he ran down the mountainside on a dirt road with serpent curves. The ground was hard in the middle and damp around the rocky sides. Fragments of clay-like road and chipped pebbles continuously fell under his feet. Maybe they were fleeing with him.

As Will rounded a cliff, a small town not far below availed itself between the tall pines. Like the home he’d woken up in, it felt somewhat reminiscent of seeing the French Quarter for the first time except that it was quiet, cleaner, and made of many more grey and cream colors with orange roofs.

 

The road had grown green with soft long grasses and wildflowers and the dirt had become a dusty pale brown when the monitor buzzed and jumped at Will’s ankle, muffled by the pajama pants he’d pulled through and wrapped around it and weighed down by the rubber clips securing it. _Shit._

The Ripper was coming now.

 

Hannibal emerged from his borrowed home in a pair of soft leather boots with worn, soundless soles.

Will had left a few unsteady footprints where the black soil was damp with Hannibal’s Italian loafers. Why hadn’t he taken the car keys from Hannibal’s pocket? Maybe Will’s need to run from the finality of his deception and assault outweighed his need to run from Hannibal.

_Or maybe…_

 

Sweating from the long jog and shivering from the cold, shuffling in shoes too big for him and wearing pajamas with bizarre clips on one short leg, Will must have looked like a fucking lunatic. He crept through the town’s narrow cobblestone streets looking for a hotel, library or cafe; anywhere he could borrow a phone. The few people he passed stared at him curiously from windows or doorways. They all seemed to be in their early twenties. _Must be a college town._  

Two neatly dressed women came out of a brightly colored townhouse to cautiously approach him. One with chestnut brown hair looked to be in her late thirties. The other, perhaps her mother, appeared to be in her sixties and had burgundy red hair pulled back in a neat bun. She was rubbing her nose with an embroidered handkerchief and frowning sympathetically.

Will’s eyes darted about, checking his surroundings. “Excuse me, is there somewhere nearby where I could charge my phone?”

The ladies exchanged surprised and worried glances with each other.

“I locked myself out of my house accidentally when my dog ran away.”

The younger brunette said something that sounded Italian or possibly Portuguese?

“I just need to call my wife.” He addressed the younger brunette. “Do you speak English?”

The brunette asked her older redheaded companion something in the same language.

“¿Hablan ustedes Español?”

They stared wide-eyed then said a few indecipherable words to one another in hushed tones.

“Parlez-vous français??” Will pled with the brunette, “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”

She responded with something that sounded Slavic.

He held up his phone and showed them he couldn’t turn it on. “Please? Help?”

“Ah.” The younger brunette woman took out her phone, giving him an assuring nod. She spoke to him slowly. It almost sounded like Castilian, lispy and forceful, but he wasn’t catching any of the words.

“Could I, please?”

The older burgundy redhead spoke slowly and loudly to him. Cell? Pay? Doctor?

“No! No doctor!”

The women looked at one another, confused and surprised again.

“It’s alright. I’m sorry.” He tried to leave but the older woman grabbed his arm and tried to calm him with words he didn’t understand.

The younger brunette offered him her phone.

“Thank you!” He dialed Alana’s number but the phone rejected it giving him an error message in Latin letters with foreign words.

“That won’t work.”

Will handed the phone back. He couldn’t bring himself to turn around. “That was fast.”

“You don’t have a coat.” Hannibal put an arm around Will’s shoulders. “You must be freezing. We had better get you in bed.”

“You said you wouldn’t hurt her.”

“You’re lost and very confused.”

The redheaded woman said something hotly to Hannibal, who answered in a patient tone.

A young man in a blue tracksuit type uniform and white cap came hurrying down the street. He caught his breath and shook Lecter’s hand then addressed him in the same-sounding language as the women.

“Jesus, where are we?”

“You need help?” The officer asked.

“I’m fine but I’ve lost my passport. I need to go to the American Embassy.”

The man turned to Hannibal and waited for him to translate.

Dread ran through Will’s intestines like cold acid. Centimeter by centimeter, he made himself look at Lecter. “I just want to go home.”

“He asked if I’m hurting you.”

 _Another game._ Will’s shivering eased. His shoulders slumped. “No.” He shook his head.

“Do you want to tell him that I’m a criminal?”

“No. I just don’t want you to go-”

 _“Not here,”_ Lecter cut him off in a low voice.

The officer and Dr. Lecter spoke cordially. The women started arguing with them. It all felt hauntingly familiar.

“Don’t let him take me,” Will whispered, knowing that’s exactly what would happen.

The young officer had a pale olive complexion and sharp eyes. He took Will by the arm and pulled him along to Lecter’s car. The women shouted until the car door closed.

 

Lecter entered a roundabout and neatly avoided a cyclist. “You’re ruining all the clothes I bought you.”

“I’m sorry.” Will gazed out the window at all the green world he was leaving behind. “I’m sorry for all of it. I don’t want you to hurt her.”

“What made you think Alana was in imminent danger?”

“Because you said you would take care of her if she, well, made contact and she did. You said you needed new leverage and that you were going to Louisiana and coming back with… _special_ meat. You don’t have to go.”

“Why didn’t you take my car keys?”

“I couldn’t find them.”

“You didn’t check my pockets?”

“Maybe I didn’t want to steal your car.”

“You destroyed my library and smashed my head when I was bent down to help you. Why stop at grand theft auto?”

A sick, nervous, excitement made Will press into the passenger door. He swallowed though his throat was dry.

“Will?”

“I am not used to stealing or any of this.”

“You didn’t take my coat either. Yet you lied to me about your mother and grandfather and faked a heart attack to cause me distress. It’s hard not to take that personally.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you. I wanted to _protect_ her.”

“Is that so? We’re almost home. I have something to show you.”

“God.” Will gripped his forehead. “What?”

Lecter smiled to himself, quite calm about everything. “I believe it will go a long way to reassure you.”

Will groaned.

“The cold and stress have weakened your immune system. It’s fortunate that you’ll have a few days to rest.”

“Could you tell me now? Instead of waiting to show me.”

“‘You’ emailed Alana and asked her to dinner.”

Will turned and faced Lecter with wide eyes.

“She declined.” Lecter leaned closer. “Very politely.”

Will didn’t need to see the email to know it was true. “That’s supposed to reassure me?”

“She doesn’t love you,” Hannibal met Will’s gaze, eyes glowing by the light of the setting sun. “Who does?”

 

They pulled up the dirt driveway. Lecter killed the engine.

 

“You bled in my shoes.” Hannibal examined the scuffed and muddy loafers after pulling them off Will’s feet. “What a mess you made for me today.”

Will hung his head. He held tight to the foot of Lecter’s bed, his fingers clawing through lush pomegranate colored comforter.

“You said you never did any of this before but that’s not completely true, is it? Did you run away from home as a child?”

“Ah!” Will winced when Lecter’s sock was pulled off his raw blisters. “How do you work out without tennis shoes?”

“That is not an answer.” He ripped off the other sock.

Will sucked air in through clenched teeth. “I left home a few times when I needed to, but it wasn’t running away.”

Hannibal rose off the floor and looked down at Will from his full regal height. “Is that because no one came looking for you?”

Will smiled bitterly. “Sometimes he’d give me a twenty. Most times he wasn’t there at all. It was nice to stay with friends or family, until it wasn’t.”

“And then you could leave and be a stray again?”

“It wasn’t a bad situation, or, childhood. I saw a lot. I think I stayed stuck on freedom.”

“How does it feel to have someone want you back and come to bring you home?”

“This isn’t my home,” came raspy and hollow from Will’s chest.

“Each time you give me a defensive non-answer you only illuminate the path I should follow. If you truly thought I would kill Alana, you would have killed me while I laid unconscious at your feet.”

“I tried to,” Will insisted. “But what if I was wrong? I thought if I could at least make you miss your flight-”

“Were you hurt when I said I’d be gone?”

Will scoffed. “I don’t care if you leave me.”

“I’ll delay my trip if you tell me what it feels like to have someone notice you’re gone and come to change that because they want you around?”

“You do?”

“That’s a question. Not an answer. We’ve exchanged a fair number of untruths but we’ve also had our moments of honesty. You let me know you’re afraid of getting close, afraid of being touched."

Will pulled back when Lecter bent down.

“You didn't take my keys because you were afraid to touch me, afraid of what you might feel."

Will crawled backward on the slippery bed. “Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

Hannibal grabbed the front of Will’s button up pajama shirt. “I’m not making a face. I rarely do. You _feel_ it. The closer you get, the more you feel me.”

Will jumped back as Hannibal pulled him closer. His silky shirt tore open.

"I told you not to run because of what I am and what it would do to me. You did it anyhow. You needed to know."

Will's hand slipped off the edge of the bed.

Hannibal climbed over him when he dropped. “When you tried to see if we could separate, you only gave me another path to follow.” He cupped Will's face with one hand, "The more paths you give me to follow, the deeper I get inside you."


	11. Inventory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal runs a cross benefit analysis.

“Don’t be so scared.”

Will scrambled back. His sleeve was caught  by Lecter. It slid off his arm when he tumbled to the floor.

Lecter’s boots walked into view.

Spinning out of the torn shirt,  Will pushed himself up into sprinting. He made a few quick, grasping strides for the bedroom door when Lecter’s weight slammed him off course. His arms wrapped around Will and they hit the hardwood floor together.

Lecter came up on top, pinning Will’s wrists and grinning. “I owe you a favor. Perhaps I’ll go down to the library and pick a nice thick book of my own.”

Will rocked and thrust his hips, trying to throw Lecter off balance.

“I was considering _Of Human Bondage._ What do you think?”

Emitting a noise between a roar and grunt, Will curled his knees tightly to his chest and kicked Lecter off of him with both feet. He crawled away, up into running for the door.

Caught at the threshold, Will dropped, jaw chattering from the fall. Lecter snaked fingers through the monitor at his ankle and pulled Will back to the bed by it.

“No!” Will kicked out, flailing like a fish on a line.

Lecter pulled Will’s ankle higher and opened a nightstand drawer. “Turns out I have more compassion for your brain than vice versa. What could that say about our effect on one another?”

Will twisted to see Lecter biting the plastic cover off the tip of a syringe. He spat it out, eyes sparkling. “Here we go.”

“Wait,” Will said as a pinch stung the top of his foot.

 

First, Will was aware of a lush blanket covering him. His back and shoulders had expanded peacefully into painless rest. He slowly blinked his eyes open.

“How do you feel?”

Will groaned and tried to rub his face, but his wrist was tethered. “What…?” He looked from one wrist to the other. They were both bound with straps.

“Do you feel relaxed?”

“Are you going to kill me now?”

“I’m thinking about keeping you instead. What am I getting for all the trouble you cause?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even think I’ll get any easier,” Will confessed. “I can be pretty reluctant to change.”

“I don’t want to change you.”

A small bit of the world around Will crystalized though the edges blurred into abstraction, giving him a kind of fisheye view. Lecter was sitting on the bed beside him.

Will was naked underneath the pomegranate colored comforter. His feet had been andaged.

Lecter took off his jacket and folded it neatly on the foot of the bed. “How do I look at you?”

“Like… you’re hungry.”

“And how do you feel about that?” He rolled up both sleeves.

“Scared. At least, I know I _should_ feel scared. I think I feel… wanted.”

“Most people conceptualize physical sensations stemming from the central nervous system as reactions to personal feelings. In reality, it is the former that causes the latter. That’s why sedatives like alcohol are effective disinhibitors  as well as being very good at reducing anxiety.”

”You think I’m normally inhibited?”

”Very. With yourself more than anyone.” The corners of Hannibal’s mouth pulled slightly back and upwards. He turned around and back again with a wooden tray in hand, which he placed by Will’s hips.

He snapped one glove on.

Will screwed his eyes shut. He felt the blanket ride up to his thighs. He was lifted by his knees until his hips were raised onto a pillow.

He heard a wet squirt.

Hannibal’s arm brushed his inner thigh.

“Nnn,” Will’s hips jumped.

“Shh.”

It was impossibly warm. Hannibal’s circular, prodding massage was as expertly executed as anything he did.

“Ah!”

“Does it hurt?”

“Nnn…”

“Good. We want you to be relaxed and comfortable as the drug wears off.”

“What. Is. Tha-” Will’s teeth ground together as electric shivers ran up his spine.

Hannibal ran the back of two fingers down the side of Will’s face, over the ridge of his cheekbone, into his scruffy, patchy beard. His gloved thumb clicked the tiny round button again.

“Ohh.” Will pressed his face into his bicep and exhaled through his parted lips.

“Opposites are fundamentally identical. They’re often represented in mythology as twins. Or lovers.”

Will tried to hide in his shoulder, breathing deeply through his oblong mouth.

“Like poles of a magnet, or a lock and key, they share a foundation and complementary differences where they connect.” Hannibal clicked the button again then left the device to run so he could remove his vest.

Will grimaced sweetly, arching his back. “Oh fff-”

“It’s time for us to connect,” Hannibal said in a soft but distinct voice. He unbuttoned his shirt.

Will was riding tides of agonizing need. But this wasn’t the usual impatient wait for release, he was swirling up a slow, excruciating crescendo. He opened his eyes.

Hannibal was climbing over him, a broad expanse of sinewy, gold toned flesh. He held himself up with one hand and pressed his forehead to Will’s.

“Shit!” Will’s stomach lurched as he clenched up. “Did I-”

“Shh.” Hannibal pulled away.” I took the toy out. You’re alright.” He placed it back in the tray.

“Oh, god. This is happening.”

“Yes.” Hannibal ripped the blanket away. “We need to know, both you and I, how deeply I fit inside of you.” Hannibal reached down and licked his lips.

Will’s head slammed into the mattress, his face contorted. “Fuck,” he exhaled.

Hannibal bit his lip and waited for Will to relax. “Look at me.”

Will kept his mouth and eyes shut and shook his head defiantly.

Hannibal jerked his hips.

Will cried out. His eyes bulged open.

“You want me to wait?”

“Yes! Wait!”

Hannibal bent to trace his nose up Will’s neck. His lips found a place to land on Will’s silky white scar. He kissed and sucked until Will eased into submitting.

“Very good, Will.”

Will grunted and squirmed beneath him, always uncomfortable in his truest moments.

Hannibal would help with that. He started rocking his hips at a slow, easy pace.

Will’s chest had flushed splotchy pink again.

They fell seamlessly into a rhythm together. Hannibal pressed his forehead to Will’s, taking in his sweat and quick breath.

The pale, clear light belonging to this place made everything look more beautiful than it would in the oppressive, piercing, bleach-yellow summer sunshine of the American South. It felt like Will had fever dreamed this world into being.

“I can’t let you go.”

“I know.”

Their pace quickened, grew more raw and desperate. The connection Hannibal sought was inescapable. Will’s thighs pressed into and pulled at Hannibal’s hips.

“Very good.” Hannibal’s rhythm grew frantic. The bed frame pounded the wall behind them like a monster breaking through its cage.

Will cried out like a symphony.

Hannibal fell on his neck and bit his scar. Will panted against Hannibal’s shoulder until Hannibal pulled himself away and collapsed beside him.

They stared at each other with heavy eyes.

“Is it true? That you ate them?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t love them?”

“No. They were flesh, only good for harvesting.”

Will swallowed thickly. “Do you eat people you love?”

“Once. But I didn’t kill her.” Hannibal sat up. “You’re bleeding.”

“No, I’m not.”

“I need to clean your skin where it broke.” Hannibal stood, slipped his boxers on, and went into his bathroom. Pipes hummed and water started falling into the bathtub. It’s drum against the porcelain turned to splashing. Hannibal would test the water, make it perfect like everything. But he didn’t want to change Will.

_You’re just as you should be._

Will tried to readjust his tied wrists.  

 

“What if you were to come with me?”

“What?” Will tried to lift his heavy head to see Hannibal better. “Go where? New Orleans?”

“Louisiana. Then, I think, somewhere else. A little less remote. A little more comfortable.” Someplace without a living owner. Hannibal had to fix that library...

“Without my passport?”

“Don’t be so skeptical. Accept what you feel to be true. You are here, after all. No passport necessary. But for our second trip, we’ll be more prepared,” Hannibal decided.

“Oh, ok.”

“Very good, Will.” He went back to his master bathroom.

“Um, could you… remove these now?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you over the water.” Hannibal has a wonderful sense of humor.

When the bath was ready, Hannibal came for Will and found him sleeping. The slight blush on his chest had spread to his cheeks.

Hannibal hurried over and smelled his head.

He began to untie the straps.

Will’s eyes fluttered open.

“Have you ever been outside of the States before?”

“No.”

“Wonderful.”

“Was that sarcastic?”

“Bitter, perhaps. You couldn’t wear a coat?”

“I’m sorry,” Will said, unsure.

“You had to run up to an old woman who was wiping her nose? Very clever. You delayed me after all.”

“Does that ruin something?”

“No. It can wait. We have lots of time.”

“Then why are you mad?”

“I’m- If it was something I knew you could handle. _This_ is what you cost me. It is very unpleasant.”

“What did I do?”

Hannibal stopped himself and adjusted his tone. “I did it. Not you. I’m accountable for the choices I’ve made. I’d make them again. I suppose I’m angry because I don’t know how to fix you.”

Will swallowed painfully. “Fix… me?”

“Fix whatever disease you contracted running around that village,” Hannibal corrected. “I recently treated someone for a viscous case of pneumonia. That officer is married to her second cousin.”

“Small village, Will joked weakly. Is that the patient you’ve been seeing?”

“One of them. They heard a doctor was renting a condo on top of the mountain and asked the owner for my number. They ask so nicely,” Hannibal shrugged. “And it saves them a long arguous trip to the city. It would be rude to refuse.”

“Are you worried about me?”

“It’s very unpleasant,” Hannibal repeated.

“I’m sorry.” This time, Will was sure he meant it. 

“Aren’t you going to ask me what you want to know?”

”What?”

”I’m still happy to see you. Come on.” Hannibal reached for Will and carried him to the bath. 


	12. His Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal pokes around in Will's mind and takes the first step of his new plan.
> 
> I'm not sure how to tag this properly. Dark themes like crimes against humanity are touched upon.

Will didn’t feel sick at all, until he did.

He turned this way and that, rolling through fevered days, in and out of consciousness. Lecter was in his dreams and every lead-chested, gasping, waking hour, speaking in a soothing voice, insisting patiently, “Take this. Open your mouth. Very good, Will.”

He seemed to know when Will was thirsty, disoriented, too hot or cold, but Will didn’t hear himself saying anything. His mouth was too arid to operate, his chest too hollow to play his jaw.

 

Will woke up and surveyed Hannibal’s room with a sudden, welcome clarity. His body felt like clay. He rubbed his eyes until he saw stars and slowly tried to sit up.

Sheets shifted beside him. Hannibal rolled over and opened one honey brown eye. His sandy hair fell softly around the pronounced ridge of his intellectual brow. “You look better.”

“Won’t you-” Will coughed and cleared his rusty throat.

Hannibal took a glass of ice water off his nightstand and offered it.

“Thank you.” After a cool deluge of water soothed his throat, Will tried again. “Won’t you get sick too? Being this close to me?”

“I’ve been exposed already. How are you feeling?”

“Tired.” In fact, his arm burned as though it had been lifting weights for an hour and trembled simply holding the water.

Hannibal took the glass from him and set it back on the nightstand. “You need to rest. You’re healing now.” When we turned back to face Will, Hannibal’s eyes narrowed. “You’re confused?”

 _“You’re_ confused. Oh, because I am.” Will sank back into Hannibal’s pillows. They both studied each other, tired and comfortable being vulnerable and disheveled in front of one another.

It felt like a good time for honesty.

“You’ve had a lot of patients?”

“Yes, many.”

“How many did you really want to help?”

“The majority. I enjoy solving problems.”

“You weren’t merely solving my problem when you took care of me.”

“No,” Hannibal said softly.

“You played Debussy-”

“And Liszt.”

“You knew what I was feeling and what I needed.”

“I’m very glad to hear that.” Hannibal’s thin cotton undershirt was pulled tight against his hard muscles as he stretched and turned onto his back, satisfied.

“How,” Will paused, then charged ahead before he could think better of it. “How can you do that for one person and… skin another alive?”

Hannibal smiled at the ceiling with a twitch of his mouth, hands folded comfortably above his head. “I keep telling you; you are not like those animals. They walk through a world of excruciating beauty with the gift of life, of senses, of autonomy and appreciate none of it. They pollute what’s precious with the base and vile behaviors of a reptilian brain.” Hannibal looked at Will. “Why do you pretend to be anything like them? You see more value in loyal, obedient, grateful dogs than in some humans, but you can’t admit it to yourself.”

“Because it’s not true.”

“Why?”

“I _like_ dogs better than some people, but that doesn’t speak to a person’s worth.”

“Why not? Who defines human worth if not us, the people at the highest echelon of humanity? Please,” Hannibal snorted, “do not evoke _god_ in your answer.”

“I don’t see myself at the utmost echelon of anything.”

Hannibal scoffed but smiled warmly.

“It’s exactly because I see life as a horrible wonderful and painfully finite gift that I value each human for what they are, without stipulations; a conscious mind in the physical world, ‘a way for the cosmos to know itself’.”

“That’s beautiful. Did Deepak Chopra say that?”

 _“Carl Sagan,”_ Will corrected, offended.

“It’s April, 1945. You find yourself stepping out of a time machine into the Fuhrerbunker with a gun in your hand and the back of Hitler’s head just four feet in front of you. No one is there to stop or attack you. Even Eva Braun is dead. Do you shoot?”

“I think… I probably would.”

“There you go.” Hannibal grinned. “That’s all I did.”

“Really? You killed mass murderers?”

“People who devalued humanity itself.”

“You weren’t saving lives-”

“Neither were you. I said you were in the bunker and Eva was already dead. The only person left for Hitler to kill at that point, was himself. So, who did you save, exactly?”

“But the people you killed weren’t _Hitler!”_

“A moment ago, all humans had inherent worth, without stipulation. Is a trapped, doomed Hitler inhuman?”

“I’m too tired to play with you,” Will grumbled.

“I deeply appreciate how generous you’re being with your limited energy.”

“... but?”

“I am so fucking bored.”

Will laughed, in spite of himself, which sucked. He didn’t mean to do this; to fall deeper, for things to feel more natural and inevitable between him and this monster. More practically, he knew laughing would mean Hannibal felt license to continue and be forgiven because he was understood.

“Do you think he was human?” Hannibal pressed.

“Yes.”

“Does he deserve your mercy?”

Will chewed his lip until the answer forced its way through. “A good person’s mercy. Yes. If he wasn’t going to hurt anyone else. I’m not wise enough to know what that mercy would be, but it very well may have been a bullet through the head. I wouldn’t skin him alive…” but then he wasn’t sure. His brow furrowed.

“Don’t you think you’re a good person?”

Will’s eyes were deep, bright seas. Hannibal was continually startled by their gravitational pull. “No. I think I understand enough to know how short I fall of being good.”

“I would endeavor to relieve you of your guilt if it wasn’t the very bitter flavor that would make me eat my heart. So, you can see where I’m going, I think,” he breezily reset their course to the original challenge. “If it’s alright to kill Hitler even if we aren’t saving one life because of it, then surely it follows that you and I could murder Stalin, Mao, Pol Pot, correct? What about Torquemada? Columbus? Leopold II?”

“Yes. Are we almost done?”

“What about Dahmer?”

“Yes.”

“Could you skin John Wayne Gacy alive?”

“Yes. I think I would like to,” Will admitted.

“Of course. But why not Hitler? He's responsible for millions of deaths. Gacy killed, what? Half a dozen children? More than a million children died in the Holocaust alone. That's not accounting for Poland or even Stalingrad-”

“Yes. I know. You’re right.”

“Is it the way they did it? Is gas or a bullet or starving to death so much better?”

“No! I’m not saying any of that! I can’t UNDERSTAND millions of murders! I can say it and try to think about it but I can’t understand it! And I have thought about your time machine scenario and the truth is I wouldn’t shoot him. I would tell him about a little boy who was bright and misunderstood. Who felt deeply and loved chocolates and music and art. A boy whose mother loved him more than her own life or anything and was torn away from that scared little boy screaming ‘Not my baby! Please, not my little boy!’ but the S. S. ripped him from her arms and shot her in front of him before killing him anyhow. I would take my time with _that_. I would tell him a story. **That’s** what I would do. And every time I thought about it he would look at me with pity, like _I_ was sick. ‘But they aren’t people like you and I. It’s a disease playacting to deceive you so that it can spread.’ And he’s high, and miserable, and triumphant until the end; comforted by the delusion that he did his part to achieve the greatest good. For him, the tragedy remains not what he did, but what he wasn’t able to complete. My revenge is useless in my own mind because his disgust shields and blinds him from the hellish truth. _That’s_ why I moved to the Ripper. _That’s_ the reason for your book and why it made me sick. You’re disgusted by people and I don’t know what could ever change that. And if I had the chance to kill Dahmer, yes, I would. But now I see that I only have the moral courage to do so because he wasn’t handsome, or charming, or fascinating to me. I’m _worse_ than you are. Is that what you want to hear? It’s true. Take it! I see what suffering and goodness are and bastardize them both.”

“Will…”

_“What?”_

“Do you really think I’m more handsome than Dahmer?”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Handsome, charming, and fascinating?”

“Why are you torturing me?”

“Will, that’s rather flippant considering what you know I’ve done.”

Will flushed hot red. “You’re laughing at me.”

“Only because I adore you. You’re confused about things and I’m trying to help. People fixate on how a victim is murdered but that’s misguided. Murder is usually mere minutes of a life that spans decades. The result matters more than the means. Listen, I killed people who kill hundreds or thousands _slowly_. Day after day after day with stress and tiny acts of violence while free from any delusion of sacrificing for a ‘greater good’.”

“You don’t care what your victims did to other people. They pissed you off and got in your way. You see your victims as invasive insects and enjoy pulling their legs off one by one.”

“I care. There are beautiful people in the world, Will. You are one of them.”

Will moaned through his clutching hands. “No.”

“No?”

“No! Leave me alone.”

“You are very tired. I was greedy with your generosity.”

Will flopped onto his other side, away from Hannibal and his painful, relentless, prying. But when Hannibal clicked off the lamp beside him and wrapped his strength and warmth around Will, it was a welcome comfort.

“Killing can be justified. It can even be good.”

“Let me sleep.”

“Once you’re better, we’ll go to Louisiana.”

Will grunted in ascent.

“What if you weren’t bad for wanting to torture Gacy to death or any of your actions in your imagined lifetimes? What if, instead, you were good for not killing me because now we have this and other things waiting, which we can enjoy together?”

“I think you’re trying to buy my soul but I don’t think it’s worth selling.”

“Then what do you have to lose?”

“What do I have to gain?”

Hannibal pulled Will to his chest. “You’ll see.”

 

When Will woke up alone one day feeling like himself again, he crept downstairs into the library.

It had already been repaired. Just like he’d never tried to leave, only the computer was gone.

 

Hannibal found Will eating toast at the marble island, looking like himself again. “We’ll leave tomorrow.”

“Just like that?”

Hannibal crossed the kitchen to hand Will a napkin. “You have crumbs in your beard. Have you ever considered being clean shaven?”

Will snatched the napkin. “No.”

 

The day after that, they left at sunset, drove through the night, down the mountain into an open, yawning valley and boarded a personal jet on a desolate runway. One man took their bags as another inspected the plane. Red and white lights dotted the straight, smooth path into darkness.

Hannibal ascended the short, white crescent staircase and waited on the top step, bent to enter the jet. “Are you coming?”

Will took a deep breath. “Ok. I’m coming with you.”


	13. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end is a beginning.

The journey back to the States had been largely lost to sleep. Once they landed, things were too procedural and hurried through to think. One step, one task after another, a groggy head and stiff back, Will followed Hannibal like a train follows its tracks.

In the rental car, Will put his warm forehead to the cool glass and listened to the hum of the road.

When he woke up, they were passing through wet stretches of steamy green fields. Moss-shrewn lonely trees awkwardly stretched their crooked branches through the large yellow sun. Thin pines lining the road they traveled down and the one opposing it looked like telephone poles now. Everything felt flat and desolate, but this stretch of interstate always had.

Will liked living in Mandeville by the lake. Though usually flat and gray, Pontchartrain still shimmered with city lights at night and reflected back the orange, pink, and hazy blue sky at sunset.

“How are you feeling?”

Will rubbed his skull through his messy hair. “Not bad. Have you been awake this whole time?”

“I don’t require much sleep.”

 _No, of course not._ “Is this I-10? Where are we going?”

“I thought you may want to collect some of your belongings, close any accounts, break your lease, whatever you have to do.”

“So that I don’t look like a missing person?”

Hannibal wore sunglasses, which struck Will as odd, at first. He hadn’t realized how much eye contact had been a source of tension and connection between them until Hannibal’s mercurial eyes were shielded; made as opaque as the rest of his controlled expression.  

“You should take I-12 toward Baton Rouge.”

“I’m not going to kill you. Don’t you believe that yet?”

“Not really.” Will laughed. He didn’t know why. Maybe because he meant it and was giving Hannibal directions to his home anyhow.

Hannibal didn’t find it funny. He had on a thin white linen collared shirt neatly folded at the elbows and sage green khakis with a handsome brown leather watch. He looked smart, elegantly rugged, ordinary enough at first glance. He shouldn’t be allowed to slip into a crowd. He should come with a warning like bright, poisonous colors, a rattle, or protruding fangs.

“You must have been dressed like that when you followed me.”

Hannibal glanced at him briefly.

“You already know where I live, don’t you?”

“I think I remember.”

“Have you been inside my home?”

“Will, you should keep in mind what my intervention saved you from.”

Will smirked bitterly. “That’s a ‘yes’ then.”

“Because I killed those criminals, not only were you spared a horrible fate, but hundreds of other people were as well. Young, innocent people. Even children, Will. How does that weigh on your internal scales of justice?”

Will rubbed his mouth. “I’m glad they’re dead. I think I even hope you enjoyed it.”

Hannibal smiled. “I did.”

“Is that the kind of thing that- the kind of people you usually…?”

“Sometimes. You weren’t completely wrong when you said that I kill people who get in my way, like that woman in the village. Rude people who disgust me. I hadn’t thought about it in those exact terms before but that is the perfect word for it; _disgust_.”

Will nodded. “Wait, what?”

“What?”

“The village?”

“That young woman mislabeled me in a very insulting manner and came close to endangering plans I’d spent months working on.”

“You- she was trying to help me.”

“Help? How? Waiting months to be deported? You’d end up talking to the police. That would _not_ have been in your best interest.”

“But she wanted to help me,” Will mumbled. “Fuck. Did you really…” why was it so hard to say? “You killed her?”

“It was fast. I hope you don’t feel guilty about it.”

Will’s breath hitched. His fingernails dug into the door handle. “Is that what you hope? Is it? I don’t think so. You wouldn’t want to disabuse me of my guilt. Not when it’s so delicious and useful to you.”

“It was unfortunate that she was thrown into our path because it is a treacherous path we walk, Will. It’s really best we travel alone.” Hannibal glanced over through his sunglasses, “ _Just the two of us._ It could have been much worse. For your friend, Alana, especially. I’m glad you didn’t say anything inconvenient to that police officer, Eduard. He’s a nice boy.”

“Fuck you.”

Hannibal’s frown was evident, even in his obscured profile. “ _Will_ ,” he reprimanded.

“Don’t! Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because it’s not true! I’m not yours. You’re too familiar with me, you came into my home uninvited, you kept me imprisoned under false pretenses, and now you’re trying to blame me for one woman you killed and the possible murder of the woman you keep insinuating you may yet kill.”

“I said I hoped you _didn’t_ feel guilty,” Hannibal corrected innocently.

“You’re rude.”

 _“What?”_ Hannibal snapped, incredulous.

“You have consistently disrespected me and my boundaries without provocation. That’s rude, Hannibal. Hm, maybe you should kill yourself,” Will pondered, twisting the knife.

Hannibal’s lips formed a straight sour line. Will had finally pushed a working button.

Actually, Will was uncomfortable with how much he enjoyed the victory, falling embarrassingly short of the apathy he aspired to shield himself with. Instead of feeling a cold indifference, his pulse raced.

“You’re in quite a mood. Maybe I should pull over so we can really talk.”

“What, are you going to fight me?”

Hannibal’s patronizing smile took on a new sly hue.

 _“It wouldn’t be a fight?”_ Will answered for him in a decent impression of Hannibal’s accent and pace of speech.

Hannibal laughed. “How well we know each other; you finish sentences I didn’t start aloud.”

Will’s triumph quickly lost its rich taste and color. Like thrashing in quicksand, his attacks only succeeded in making him sink deeper.

“It’s nice to hear you say my name. I’ll have to make you say it for me again. I’d like to hear it from you in different tones and pitches. Louder.”

Will’s neck burned up to his cheeks. He looked away.

Hannibal enjoyed the silence the rest of the ride.

 

Crickets sang in the sparse patch of woods around Will’s lonely lakehouse. Water lapped at the concrete seawall behind it. His yard had become a mess of weeds and pine needles while he was away. 

Will stood in front of his porch steps in the soft pajama-like clothes Hannibal had bought him and dug a big toe into the damp dirt. “I don’t want you to come in.”

Hannibal froze. He’d just opened the trunk, now he stepped away from it. “You don’t?”

“The path we’d walk is very dangerous, you’re right. I’m not a dangerous person though, I just write about them. I think it would be better for everyone if we walked it alone. Separately. I do appreciate things you did for me and the time we had together, but I have to ask you to leave.”

Hannibal stood, looking unsure for once, by the car he’d rented a few hours ago with the singular purpose in mind of taking Will and some of his belongings away with him inside it. Neither of them had expected Hannibal to be disarmed so easily.

Another surprise.

Hannibal brought the trunk lid down with a thick metal clap.

“I’m sorry.”

“Wait.” He ducked into the rental car and came back out with Will’s phone in hand. “Here, take this.”

Will stayed on the second porch step and accepted his phone back with a quick half smile. “I’m guessing you put your number in it?”

“Call me if you need me, Will.”

Will nodded. "Thank you."

Hannibal smiled with the same flash of ache and determination which Will had shown him, got in his rental car, and drove away.

 

Weeks later, Will set out in jeans, boots, and a light, functional, army-green jacket to reclaim his empty life by wandering through the world at his leisure. He walked around the city, from bookstore to cafe, to a bar, and then another bar where he ran into Jack, who told Will that he should go home.

Instead, Will barhopped until he found himself playing pool in a smokey ice house.

A little tan creamy skinned woman with dark auburn hair and tight jeans ran a finger down his shirt collar and bumped his hip with hers. “Hey, handsome. Can I buy you a drink?” A cheerful and tipsy woman, her pouty bow mouth, little pointed nose, and chin made her deep blue eyes the irresistible focus of her face.

Will was happy with himself; out with people, talking to a hot woman. Everything was great; very normal.

“What are you having? I’m buying.”

Exactly what she planned on him saying, she enjoyed making a fuss about it anyhow.

 

A few shots and two games later, they walked out together into a tight gravel parking lot. Will held her arm. She stumbled along and kept landing against Will cutting the thick air each time with a shrill laugh. A repeated desperate excuse to touch him.

 

Will waved goodbye as a sedan pulled away.

He walked until he found a bench by a street lamp, but not too close to its bright light. He smacked a mosquito on his wrist and sat down. “I know you’re there. I always know. I got her a ride home in case you wanted to talk.”

“That was thoughtful of you.”

Will flinched away from Hannibal’s voice, not expecting it to appear right over his shoulder. “Hello.”

“You’ve been drinking.” Hannibal came into the light and sat next to Will.

“A little.”

“You smell drunk.”

“Well, ok. I’m not _drunk_ drunk.”

“You never called."

"I didn't need to."

"Let me drive you home.”

Will thought a moment.

“Please?”

“Alright. Thanks.” Will stood and shoved his hands into his jean pockets. Instead of looking casual, he tilted into Hannibal who put a hand on his back and guided him into the passenger seat before shutting him safely inside.

 

“What did you do to my friends?”

“Do?” Hannibal shut his door and buckled his seatbelt.

“You must have said or done something in emails that you deleted.”

“Must I have?”

“Yes. Because Jack is micromanaging me and Alana is keeping her distance.”

“He’s afraid for you, and she’s afraid of you.”

“I know. Why?”

“It wasn’t me, Will. It’s always been this way. I bet food doesn’t taste the way you thought it did before either. Conversation isn’t as interesting, is it? No one really seems to understand.”

Will swayed away to look Hannibal over. “Do… you think I’m depressed?”

“No." Hannibal looked both ways before turning right on a red light. "It was better with me.”

“You feel the same way,” Will muttered. He could almost laugh.

“ _I_ didn’t abandon _you_ , as we can both plainly see.”

 _"_ Abandon?" Will shifted and sighed. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said quietly.

Hannibal tensed. He pulled onto Will’s street.

“Do…” Will rolled his loose head around indecisively. “Would you like to come in? For a drink or…”

“I would like that very much.”

“Yeah?” Will smiled. “I did work more on the sequel. I have some questions for you. If you want. It feels so awkward now. I’d like to know what your-” the words evaporated in Will’s throat. His windows shined through the spindly pines and winding oaks.

His lights were on. He never left his lights on.

“What did you do?”

“It’s a surprise for you. Three, actually.”

Will’s jaw hung loose and dumb until they pulled into his driveway. “Were you waiting for me to leave my home so you could surprise me?”

“Come on,” Hannibal whispered conspiratorially. He grinned, got out of the car, and walked through the inky night and up onto Will’s wrap around porch.

Will’s chest slowly heaved. He opened the car door resolutely with an unsteady hand.

 

By the time the porch creaked under Will’s weight, Hannibal had disappeared inside his home.

He crept in like a thief then stumbled back, collapsing in his open living room. “Jesus Christ,” Will gasped.

“Do you like it?” Hannibal stood in the light wearing a crisp, softly luminescent black and indigo plaid suit and vest with an arctic blue collared shirt and cranberry tie with matching pocket square behind a gagged man in brown dockers and an off-white, wrinkled short sleeve shirt who had been tied to Will’s wooden kitchen table chair. “There’s a second and third part.”

Will panted, clawing at his floor. “How?”

“I only needed a name. Names are important, Will. I keep repeating yours. Even when you aren’t there, as if you were an ethereal being I could summon. You must recognize him, judging by your reaction. I don’t think he recognizes you, however. Does that hurt your feelings?” Hannibal slowly walked from the man to Will. “I’m sure you’ve changed more than he has since the last time you laid eyes on each other. You look so young and helpless now. You’ve transformed so vividly.”

Hannibal knelt beside Will and spoke softly. “I didn’t think this would hurt." He swallowed. "Remarkable…”

“Make him go away.”

Hannibal handed Will a gun. It was heavy and cold in his sweaty palm. “That’s the second part of the surprise.”

“I can’t.”

“You think you can’t because you’re afraid of him. This insect still has power over you. But you can take it back. _I can help you._ If you ask me to, I’ll help with everything.”

Will’s suppressed exhale burst out of his chest like violent vomit. _“Help me.”_

“Help you… what?”

“Please,” Will stuttered through his clenched jaw, “help me, Hannibal.”

“Always.” Hannibal wrapped his arms around Will’s shoulders and helped him aim and steady the gun while a dirty old man cried out through the sock in his mouth and rocked in Will’s wooden chair. “Do you know why he keeps staring at me, not you? He doesn’t remember you because there were so many others.”

The bang rang, high pitched, in Will’s ears. His breath echoed in the bubble in his head.

“We have to leave now.” Hannibal’s lips brushed against his ear. “Before they arrive.”

“Wh-who?”

“The police. You know how water carries sound, don’t you? You just fired a gun on the shore of a lake in a relatively quiet part of the city.”

“He’s real? He- is he dead?”

Hannibal rose and headed to the front window to peer through the blinds. “Get up. We have to go.”

“What? And leave it?” Will pointed to the body he couldn’t stop staring at, “Here?! Like that?”

They both heard a distant siren.

“Oh, god. What have I done?”

“Will.” Hannibal appeared beside him. “Get rid of the murder weapon. You don’t want the police to find you with it in your hand. No need for a trial then.”

Will dropped the gun like it had burned him.

“I have to leave.”

“That’s the third part of your surprise.” Hannibal dangled a small dark blue leather square out of reach. “A passport. I took the liberty of packing for you. **Will** , it’s too late once you see the flashing lights.”

“Ok. Ok.” Will climbed to his feet and followed Hannibal out the door without looking back.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Leaving a nice comment is an exceptionally polite thing to do. :)
> 
> Heartfelt thanks to everyone who has left comments. It means more than I can adequately express.


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